


Strange's Country

by concernedlily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-10
Updated: 2007-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concernedlily/pseuds/concernedlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam stopped focusing on ways to free Dean from the deal and started looking for ways to get him out of hell two months before he was due to arrive there.</p><p>(Fusion with Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susannah Clarke)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange's Country

Sam stopped focusing on ways to free Dean from the deal and started looking for ways to get him out of hell two months before he was due to arrive there.

He'd been so confident, at the beginning, that there had to be something out there, but in the last ten months of research he'd exhausted pretty much everything he could think of, everything Bobby could think of, and even everything the saner-sounding members of various message boards could think of. Ruby was still hanging around, like a small blonde insurance policy, but she'd stopped making promises months ago; he wasn't sure who'd turned out more of a disappointment to whom there.

He hated it, but what the crossroads demon had once told him seemed to be true: this deal was ironclad. So it was time to focus his energies where they might be useful. Maybe he couldn't stop Dean from being sent to hell, but he didn't have to just leave him there.

There was a surprising amount of lore on rescuing trapped souls from the underworld, from Inanna to Orpheus, and even Jesus, but it was all pretty vague. Sam had his own rare books supplier now, someone who was aware of hunters but probably sold to more grad students and occult researchers. Aaron Mitchell never asked awkward questions but answered any that were put to him, worked out of a bad part of New York City he could have bought twice over with some of the books in his collection, and accepted cash through the post. More importantly, he never sounded sad when he talked to Sam like Bobby did, resigned and worried about the lengths Sam was prepared to go to, the avenues he wasn't automatically ruling out; Aaron liked Sam and greeted every new research topic with a scholarly detachment. When Sam talked about his new interest he quickly received a cheap copy of Graves, a Gnostic exegesis of the Gospels and smudged Xeroxes of a Malleus Maleficarum supposedly annotated by Anton LaVey.

Five weeks before Dean's deal was due, Aaron sent him The Life of Jonathan Strange (1820) by John Segundus.

* * *

“We have a hunt here or not?” Dean said, loudly. Everything Dean said lately was loud, as if he was trying to carve himself permanently into the world by sheer volume.

“Yeah, probably,” Sam said, distractedly. His latest book was pretty interesting even without the possibilities he was beginning to see for helping Dean, but he put one set of notes away and pulled out the ones he'd made on the case. He didn't have anything Dean hadn't already heard and commented on but he recited the basics and their own ideas back to him anyway. Dean was a driver through and through (since the first time he'd scrambled into the front seat while John was inside a shop, Sam reaching out impatient hands to him from where he was belted into a toddler seat in the back, and made enthusiastic broom-broom noises) and he learned best through a steady voice in his ear, repeated as many times as necessary, and then the information he was hearing was as well-known as the worn hard rock he loved.

“So, you think spirit?” And Dean slanted a glance to the side, another old habit, looking for agreement and whatever approval he thought he might have earned.

“Yeah, probably a spirit,” Sam said mildly. They were chasing the second of two deaths in a house that had seen a murder-suicide less than ten years ago, a woman named Marion Edwards who'd shot her husband and then slit her wrists on their third wedding anniversary. It was simple a case as they ever saw. Sam didn't really know if he was trying to go easy on Dean, since these might be the last weeks of his life, or on himself, same reason, but he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate either impulse.

“Salt and burn,” Dean said, smiling. “Think it's the guy or the girl? We should probably do both. Y'know. To be sure.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sam said. He sort of got why Dean liked lighting up fires so much but unlike Dean he didn't think it made hours of grave-digging worth it. “The guy was cremated. Guess it could still be some sort of relic of his, but probably salting and burning the woman'll do it.”

“Okay,” Dean said, unconcerned. “Long as I get to torch something.”

A couple of hours passed. “We've been in this county before, you know,” Dean announced then, complacent and idle. “You were just a kid,” - Dean's conception of Sam's being 'just a kid' encompassed everything from eighteen months to eighteen years - “and Dad was hunting a black dog. We spent a couple of months.”

“A couple of months for a black dog?” Sam said, sceptical. Black dogs were a pain in the ass to track, but they were standard.

Dean said, “I think it was his first one,” in the sort of fond tones other men might use for their child's first touchdown. Sam nodded. It was always strange to think of his father's firsts, to think of hunting as something he had learned while Sam was learning his first clumsy a-b-cs at Dean's knee, barely higher than his own.

“You fell in love with the chick next door and tried to give her your blankie,” Dean informed him, his glee barely repressed. “It was real cute, Sammy. Guess you were what, fifteen?”

“Four, when I quit with the blankie,” Sam said, trying for brotherly irritation, but of course Dean knew perfectly well. Sam hadn't thought of that blanket for years, its blue fleece worn down to thin greyish raggedness by the time he'd declared himself too old for it. He vaguely remembered thinking as a child that it smelt of his mother, although even then he must have known he was pretending; he slept in Dean's chubby, stubborn arms every night, and it couldn't have smelt of anybody but him, of the two of them together, small and safe. As Dean's words reminded him of it he felt a moment of pure, childish terror about who would give him his life back again, once Dean was gone too.

* * *

They pulled into the Goodnight Moon Motel in the early evening. It boasted the kind of rooms that Sam suspected Dean marked out of ten: an owner with a vision, and the time to inflict it on his guests. Orion watched over the bed nearest the door (which Dean quickly claimed for his own) with an expression of brooding constipation while Sam was overlooked by the Plough, picked out in the night-blue wall in an unfortunate shade of orange. There was a model of the solar system on the ceiling, much repaired, a dim glow issuing from the sun when Sam flicked the switch.

Dean was already digging through his duffel on the bed, separating the merely grubby from the epically dirty with a look of studied absorption, but Sam was pretty sure he could see a smirk dripping off the edges of Dean's lips. After three years on the road together, that almost-expression served as the whole conversation.

Sam threw his own bag onto his bed and pulled his laptop out, setting it on the table, booting up and searching for a wireless signal he could use. There wasn't one and he shut it with a sigh; they could find a Starbucks, and Dean would complain about overpriced yuppy coffee and empty the cinnamon shaker over his anyway, and then he would yap about every woman who glanced in his direction until Sam was finished or bored or both. Sometimes he appreciated that Dean was making an effort for him, the desperate normality bleeding through, and sometimes he just wished Dean would cram a sock in it and brood.

He went back to his notes. “The woman went to St. John the Divine's, just outside town,” he reported. “It's one of the oldest Catholic churches in the area, has a cemetery attached. Might be worth checking out before we go to the parents.”

“She was a murderer and a suicide, Sammy,” Dean said. “She's not going to be buried in any Catholic cemetery.” Sam tried to catch his eye and wasn't surprised when he couldn't. The fight about what might happen to Dean's body, after, had lasted three days. Or three days and nine weeks, really, given that they'd resolved nothing, just fought bitterly to a wrung-out silence.

It wasn't like it was deliberate on Sam's part or on Dean's either, he thought. It wasn't like he thought it was helpful or cathartic or doing anything other than fucking them up right when they needed to be with each other the most. It just made him crazy, to see Dean so fatalistic about throwing himself away. About going. Sam had come to accept his own similarities to their father, but Dean was just like him too; they both said it was so important to look after Sam, like all they wanted was to protect him, but John's protective impulses had sent Sam hundreds of miles away to school and Dean's were letting him face hell like he still believed Sam would find a way to get on just fine without him.

Sam breathed deep, let it go, and got up to poke about in the tiny kitchenette for a kettle. It smelled a little mildewy over there but that was by no means the worst thing he'd ever smelt in a motel room, and soon there would be the deep and slightly chemical scent of the instant coffee they carried to mask it. He'd learnt to value busywork over the last year.

Keeping his voice even, he called out, “Not necessarily. A lot of older graveyards had an unconsecrated area for people who died in a state of sin. Unbaptised babies, suicides. Anyway, even if she's not buried there the priest might be able to tell us where she is.” He clattered mugs and jars around on the surfaces, which had last been graced by a cursory wipe maybe sometime around the time Sam was born, hoping Dean would get he was irritated without being able to think of an excuse to pick a fight about it. “Like I said, better not to bother the parents if we don't have to.”

“Looks worse if the priest doesn't know and we have to go to them anyway,” Dean countered, but half-heartedly. They'd go to the church in the morning.

Dean was lying on the bed now, messing with his cell, his laundry piled up at his feet. Sam put his coffee on the stand, earning himself a grunt, and started opening drawers. Gideon New Testament (missing part of Mark and Luke and all of Corinthians), old white tennis sock... takeout menus. He dropped them on Dean's head and went to shower off the road.

He hadn't noticeably moved by the time Sam got out, but there were a couple of crumpled notes on the table by the door, waiting for a delivery, and on the TV a blonde was giving a redhead enthusiastic oral sex. Dean had one eye on it but he didn't look all that interested, hands behind his head and body relaxed into the comforter.

“Dude. You're not even watching it,” Sam said.

“I'm waiting for the plot to kick in,” Dean said. He threw one of the takeout menus at Sam. “Tonight the chef's special is Venezuelan. You like Venezuelan food, Sammy?”

Sam flipped it over. He didn't recognise any of the dishes or anything in the pictures. “I don't know. What's Venezuelan food?”

“Guess we're gonna find out,” Dean said cheerfully. “I bet this tiny town here in the middle of goddamn nowhere is just the place for top notch Venezuelan.”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Sam said. Who cared, whatever Dean had ordered he would have ordered a lot of it and Sam wasn't that picky when he was actually hungry. He pulled on jeans and an old, comfortable sweatshirt, throwing his old clothes in the direction of Dean's laundry pile and grabbing his duffel to add pretty much everything else he owned. Laundry was always the last thing they got done; Sam suspected Dean had started turning his underwear inside out to last another day about a week ago.

Venezuelan food turned out to be pretty good, and arrived quick and hot which was half the trick. They ate straight out of the containers, using plastic forks, and when Dean was done he licked the last of the sauce from his fingers and let out a contented belch. Sam made an automatic disapproving sound around his own last mouthful, but it was pretty good hearing Dean enjoying his food. He'd turned down a lot of highway food, lately, and since that was pretty much all they ate that was a lot of meals to miss. Sam didn't know if Dean thought Sam hadn't noticed or had noticed and not thought anything of it or had noticed and not cared, like loss of appetite hadn't also been both John's and Sam's own way of dealing with stress and Dean hadn't become a decent cook, once upon a time, to feed them both comfort and strength.

“You want to go out?” Sam offered when they were done. “Town can come up with food like this, it can probably come up with a decent bar.”

“Nah,” Dean said. “This is my last shirt, anyway.” He wiped at the stains where he'd dripped the dark red sauce and gave Sam an enormous, cheesy grin. “Anyway, not like I need to go out and look for female company when I've got you here to iron my shit and braid my hair, right?”

“Right,” Sam said. Not like he wasn't used to Dean calling him a girl, and he wanted to preserve the fragile peace between them of good food and good feeling. “Well, since you don't want to go out, and that's your last shirt...” he threw his rucksack at Dean, repacked with their laundry, and gave Dean his toothy insincere beam right back.

They did the laundry together, making stupid bets on which machine was going to get into the spin cycle first, speculating on the history of the lacy green thong hanging from the back of the door and playing their own version of poker (a long-established, fiendishly complex matter that a friend of Sam's working on a graduate thesis in pure math hadn't understood) for grave-digging duty on the top of one of the dryers. Dean let Sam get the 'fresh fields' fabric softener and folded his share without complaining. They went back outside to go to their room, Dean threatening to shove so the clean clothes would fall to the floor, laughing and easy together.

Ruby was leaning against the Impala. She fixed a quick black stare on Dean and smiled. He took the clothes Sam was carrying off him and slammed into their room, all his ease and happiness gone. Sam shut his eyes for a moment, setting himself to watchfulness, and turned to Ruby.

“What is it?”

“What are you doing here?” she countered, old frustration clear on her pretty face. What had once been a quicksilver tension between them, user and useful, had frayed over months into a kind of exhausted tango, Ruby still promising him Dean's life and Sam still pretending he was prepared to let himself be led. He thought she must have realised he'd turned away from the path she had made so tempting; he'd said no once, in desperation and grief, and every time afterwards it had got easier to look away from her and back towards his brother. But he understood; she'd thrown in her lot with his decades, maybe even centuries before he was born, and while Dean was still alive he could preserve a little hope she had something to offer them, even if he didn't have anything else left to give.

“We're on a case,” he said calmly. “Standard malevolent spirit, but a couple of people've been hurt, someone's dead. We're doing our job.”

“That's your brother's job,” she said. She moved closer. “'Standard malevolent spirit'? He doesn't need you for that.”

“I didn't say he did,” Sam said.

She smiled. “Then I have something else for you. There's a demon two states over, one who's avoiding pulling the usual shit so far. You'd be the first hunter to catch it, Sam. Could be someone high-up. Someone it'd really be worth making talk. Dean can cope here, you'd be back in a couple of days.”

“I'm not leaving him,” Sam said flatly. “You know I won't.”

“Won't, won't, won't,” Ruby mimicked softly. “He's got what, five weeks now? How's any of this going to help him when he's down where that demon should be?”

He'll know I didn't leave, Sam didn't say. Not that Sam didn't know the only person that knowledge was going to help was himself, but it wasn't like he had anything better to offer instead.

“Where that demon would've been now, if you hadn't let that gate open,” she said, looking into the middle distance. That'd been provoking to him, a couple of go-rounds ago.

“Yeah, well, I can think of someone else who should've still been there if it wasn't for that gate,” he said, not bothering to put any heat into it. He saved his guilt for Dean's making the deal, these days: Jake would have opened the gate whatever happened and that wasn't anything to do with Sam; he hadn't even been alive.

She glared. He thought of married couples suddenly, the type where the divorce was a huge surprise because they never fought, like not even caring enough about anything to fight about it any more wasn't the death knell ringing out under the surface of the relationship.

“We'll take a look at it when we're done here,” Sam said, aiming for compromise. It was a demon – maybe he didn't want to deal with it on her schedule, but he'd deal with eventually. From her expression, he came off closer to totally disinterested.

“Don't do me any favours,” she snarled. Her face contorted for an instant and then she was turning on her heel and stalking back to her car. Sam watched to make sure she left, and then went back to the room.

Dean was in the shower, their clean clothes thrown carelessly on his bed. Sam started folding them again, slowly, hanging up their good shirts for the church visit the next day. Dean would only roll his regular clothes up as soon as they were leaving, but Sam felt more satisfied to see clothes piled up in neat folds.

Dean banged out of the bathroom, what looked like every towel in the room wrapped around him somewhere. He rifled through Sam's tidy pile for clean boxers and pulled them on then climbed into his bed, ignoring Sam standing there, still folding. Sam stayed silent; he already knew Dean wouldn't, not once his point had been made. He dumped the clothes on a chair and went to get ready for bed himself.

About five months previously, an argument in the car had ended in their getting out to throw a couple of punches at each other, wrestling to an exhausted standoff, resting against each other as they leaned against the car door and shared a bottle of water. Two months after that, another argument in the car had ended with Sam standing on the side of the road, yelling for Dean to leave like you just said you were going to, you fucking pussy, while Dean sat in the driver's seat thirty metres along the road, hands shaking where they gripped the wheel. Now, by undiscussed mutual agreement, they kept their arguments off the road and out of the car, so that if necessary one of them could go sleep in it.

“What did she want?” Dean said, once Sam was in bed and flicking idly through his book.

“She thinks there's a possession somewhere near here,” Sam said guardedly. “I said maybe we'd take a look when we're finished with this job.”

“Yeah, I bet she'd be real happy to have us on the case.”

“Dean...”

“She's a demon, Sam! Maybe it's not other possessions we should be looking at here. Why are you still even talking to her?”

“There's still a chance she can do something about the deal,” Sam said quietly.

Dean made a disbelieving sound. “Come on, Sam. I may not know exactly what you're thinking here and I still don't want to but I know you're not sitting on your ass waiting for Ruby to save me. You haven't for months.”

“No, I'm not,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I can't rule her out.”

“You should. You don't owe her anything.”

“If she comes through, I'll owe her whatever she wants!”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Dean muttered.

“What?” Sam snapped.

“Sam, come on,” and now he sounded defeated, appealing. “You know what she's got you to do before. I don't want... I don't want to go with her still having this hold over you.”

“What hold? If you die, she won't have any hold over me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean said. “I don't trust her, Sammy, I never have. And my fucking dying wish here is that you wouldn't.”

Dean rolled over and flicked off his light, clearly meaning to insist that the conversation was over. Sam sighed and turned onto his back. Sleep came quickly.

* * *

The thing was, The Life of Jonathan Strange was obviously meant to be read as biography, and not some kind of postmodern true-for-some-value-of-true crap, either. For a while Sam had thought maybe it was some sort of mysticism journal, dressed up a biographical novel to avoid religious problems in nineteenth century England, but that was just wrong, somehow. The names, the dates, the quoted letters and newspapers and journals; they seemed legitimised by the anxiousness and care the biographer managed to transmit across each page.

But the other thing was, it wasn't true. Sam had taken a few British history courses in his time and he'd spent a couple of hours checking his memories of them against Wikipedia. English history just didn't contain anything The Life of Jonathan Strange seemed to take as common knowledge.

A human child, brought up in Faerie, ruling Northern England for three hundred years as the Raven King John Uskglass – never happened. If that hadn't happened, neither had his abandonment of his realm, and the gradual disappearance of magic from England. So if it hadn't disappeared, it hadn't returned in the nineteenth century magicians Gilbert Norrell and Jonathan Strange. Sorcery hadn't saved England from Napoleon and the French army, it hadn't flourished and grown again, and as far as Sam knew, it wasn't there now.

Even the magic Segundus described so earnestly wasn't anything Sam recognised. He and Dean had worked their share of spells, used protective symbols and chants and charms. (Not that Dean would ever describe such things as magic, and certainly not when they were being done by him, just as he wouldn't put his aversion to black cats, Fridays the thirteenth and cracks in the pavement down to superstition.) Even the exorcisms, the holy water blessings, Sam sometimes thought of as magic; they worked, he could see them working, unlike his prayers, where all the things he tried so hard not to ask for weren't given to him. But this English magic, based in the soil and air and the minds of men and yet so proscribed and codified, seemed very different.

The fairy lore was weird as well. Sam had never met any traditional fairies and neither had anyone he knew. He knew Shakespeare and fairy tales, and he knew the older, darker material, snatched children and bowls of milk and cold iron: the Seelie and Unseelie courts, the Wild Hunt, the remote cold beautiful creatures in a land near to his own. The fairies of English magic were like that, but not; Christianised and capricious and above all harnessable.

Everything was against his book. But Sam had good instincts for truth, could usually tell from the first sensationalised news story whether the gas was going to be an investment or a waste, and his instincts were telling him now that there was something in this book that was real and useful. That if he could only find it, forget rescue; he might still be able to save Dean outright.

* * *

The next morning was fresh and cold. Sam stared up at the ceiling for a while, letting his dreams fade into the back of his mind. He'd dreamt of a city made of mirrors, running through the streets looking for his own reflection and seeing only the buildings reflected back on each other hundreds of times, until he wasn't sure that he was moving anywhere at all. The motel ceiling was decorated carefully with stick-on stars, constellations glowing weakly in the dim light that crept in through the thin curtains.

He got up quietly, trying not to wake Dean, pulling on sweats, t-shirt and running shoes and letting himself out of the room. He picked west, putting the sun at his back, and set off. As he ran he tried to empty his mind, leaving only a corner keeping track of his route back to the motel, concentrating on the feeling of the sidewalk under his pounding feet, his heart rate speeding up, the flow of air as he breathed steadily.

It worked. As he walked back to the motel, his disturbing dreams were swept out of his thoughts, into the box where he put everything he didn't want to think about, and his focus was back on their upcoming visit to the cemetery. When he got back to the room Dean was already outside, the Impala's hood up while he fussed over the engine.

He poked his head outside of his work long enough to say, “Coffee and bagels inside,” then went back to whatever he was doing. Sam was never sure – the Impala sounded the same to him as ever, growls when Dean put his foot down and a steady lulling thrum when he didn't, but Dean could always hear the first faint sparks of wrongness and lavished attention on the car to make sure they never developed into anything more than that. He was still letting Sam under the hood occasionally, when he could find something that really needed doing and that he wanted Sam to learn, but recently he liked to check her over every few days anyway, only ever futzing as far as Sam could tell, but coming in grimy and contented.

A couple of hours later they were suited up and ready to call on the priest as two psychologists working on a paper about people who committed murder-suicides. Dean had started picking wilder stories lately, like he was trying to see the limits of what they could get away with.

When they arrived at St. John's the doors were locked and the church was quiet, although the sign on the door said it should have been open for confessions. It wasn't necessarily unusual to find that a church with a small congregation had odd or irregular opening hours and the church was obviously used and loved; its entrance was set in a small garden and the flowers and shrubs looked thriving and cared-for.

“Cemetery's round the back,” Dean announced, coming back to the entrance from that direction.

“Open?” Sam said.

“Don't think so,” Dean said. “But the fence is a piece of cake, we can get in there. It's not that big. Twenty minutes, we'll know she's there or not.”

Sam considered it. He hated getting caught pulling jobs in churches; it felt like sacrilege, no matter how he tried to tell himself they were on the side of the angels. But a cemetery wasn't exactly the same. Probably the priest wasn't around; there wasn't a note on the door to explain his absence, like everyone who might need to know where he was already did. And if anyone did find them, they were dressed up, which was almost better than a signed note from God when it came to an excuse that would last just long enough to get away from the situation.

“Okay,” he said and followed Dean around back. He was right about the fence; it was barely four feet high, more a boundary marker than a deterrent, and even wearing the suits it was a moment's work for Sam and Dean to be in the cemetery and moving around the headstones looking for Marion Edwards.

Sam kept to the edges of the cemetery, reasoning that if part of it was kept deliberately unhallowed it was most likely to be there, even set a little apart from the other graves. It was a nice cemetery, peaceful and quiet with the weight of the town's history. The flowers and bushes had a wilder, rougher feel, but they were still obviously tended, like those at the entrance.

It didn't take him long to find Marion, in a little cluster of headstones subtly separated from the others by a low bush. Sam was used to cemeteries and graves but he looked at these a little more sadly, wondering what tragedy lay behind these, why they weren't buried in the other part of the cemeteries, if they had families there they were separated from. Marion's was the only grave there with flowers.

He turned to look for Dean, who was at the other end of the cemetery staring intently at one of the headstones. Sam tried to not to think about whether Dean was over there facing his own mortality. Especially since probably all he was thinking about was lunch. He waited for Dean to look up and then waved him over, preferring not to shout. Even churches had nosy neighbours.

“You got her?” Dean said, jogging over.

“Yeah.” He indicated the headstone. Dean came to stand next to him and they looked at it together for a second.

“Okay. We're near the road but those hedges should pretty much hide us.” Dean stamped his foot a couple of times, testing the ground. “That's not great, it's pretty hard.” He nudged Sam and grinned. “Looks like we're working up a sweat tonight. Think you can handle that?”

“Hey, who here lay around in bed all morning while I was running?” Sam said, pretending to be affronted.

“What? I can't improve on perfection, Sammy,” Dean said. “Not my fault you have to work at it. Okay, we done here? You gonna remember where it is later?”

“Yeah. Don't worry, I know the memory starts to let you down at your age,” Sam said, ducking Dean's shove.

“Excuse me, how did you get in here?”

They turned around. A woman was standing behind them, maybe in her fifties, an elegant scarf holding back her hair and a polite smile of enquiry on her face. She was carrying a basket and as Sam stepped towards her, giving her back his most harmless and guileless smile, he could see that it contained gardening equipment, and that her hand was on a pair of sharp-looking shears.

“Hi, I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean. We're really sorry to have come in like this but Dean used to go to school with Marion Edwards, and then we were passing near the area on business and once we got here to the cemetery we didn't want to just go again without paying our respects.”

The woman relaxed and gave them a more genuine smile, so Sam assumed Dean wasn't making his idea of a sincere face behind him. Really, the suits just did all the work for them.

“Oh, how good of you. It was such a terrible thing, they were a lovely couple. It was a dreadful shock to everyone. Did you know her well?”

“Um, no,” Dean answered, falling into Sam's cover, “but, you know, like you said, she was real nice, and we were, we were in school together a long time. I saw her around a lot.”

“Of course,” the woman said, beginning to lead Sam and Dean towards the gates. “Well, I'm afraid I didn't know Marion very well either, but everybody spoke very kindly of her. She used to spend a lot of time with some of the older parishioners, the ones who didn't have anyone else.”

“Why do you think she did it?” Dean said and Sam shot him a Look.

So did the woman. “I don't think it's appropriate to gossip,” she said severely.

“Right, sorry,” Dean mumbled.

She seemed to soften. “No. No, it's natural to wonder. But I think there are some things that just can't be explained, maybe not even by the person who does them.”

“The grounds here are very lovely,” Sam said hurriedly. “Do you take care of them?”

“Hmm?” She looked down at her basket like she'd forgotten what was in it. They were nearly at the entrance. “Oh, yes. Well, there's a group of us. This cemetery is one of the oldest in town, a lot of the graves aren't maintained any more, but we like to keep it tidy.”

“I'm sure Marion would have liked that,” Sam said softly.

She looked at him with clear eyes, as if she were gauging his understanding and sympathy. Then she said, “I hope so. That area of the cemetery, you know. Many of the graves there were not looked after even when the families were still alive.”

“That's a shame.”

“It is. Father Brooks might not agree with me, but I like to think that God at least has mercy enough for those who need it most.”

They were at the cemetery gates. She used a key to unlock them and showed Sam and Dean out, polite but firm.

“Thank you,” Sam said, fumbling a little, Dean echoing him a beat later. “The cemetery looks great, really. You do nice work.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I think it's nice if there's something in a cemetery for the living.”

She locked the gates again behind them. Sam looked back after they'd gone a few metres; she was kneeling at the foot of a rosebush, pruning delicately.

“What was that she was saying? About mercy?” Dean asked beside him.

“That's why Marion could be buried here, like I thought,” Sam said. “It's a section with unconsecrated ground, so people could be buried within the community, but they wouldn't... They used to think that the resurrection would be bodily, like people would just get up out of their graves and go up to heaven.”

“Except the people in the unconsecrated ground,” Dean said.

“Yeah.”

“'Cause they were in hell, right? They were sinners.”

“Supposedly,” Sam said, hating the conversation and the world where he had to have it with his whole being. “Maybe. But they didn't deserve it.”

Dean only hummed in response. Sam risked a glance at him. He looked calm.

* * *

That left them with the afternoon to kill before they could go back to the cemetery that night and salt and burn Marion Edwards' body. Sam still felt a lingering sadness about the case; of course it had to be done but it felt unfair, somehow, to extinguish her spirit still with no idea what in her life had been so terrible to drive her to her actions and then leave her spirit restless and vengeful.

They ate at a small diner near the church, Dean ordering a burger with hash browns and then changing his mind and nagging Sam to switch his fries with him when their food came. Sam agreed absentmindedly and picked at his mushroom omelette. Dean got cherry pie to go and an agreement from Marie the waitress to meet him at a bar in town that night.

When they got back to the motel Dean shed his suit, leaving Sam to hang it up, and settled in for a happy afternoon with soap suds and car wax.

Sam settled in with his notes on Jonathan Strange and his book dealer's phone number.

“Hey, Sam,” Aaron said. He sounded the same as he always did, alert and interested and a little hoarse, like he'd spent the day delicately blowing dust from tomes unopened for years. Which he hadn't: Sam hadn't yet been able to think of an excuse for going to New York City good enough to convince Dean to risk the car there, but he'd seen photos of Aaron's inventory. His internet business was conducted out a storage locker but it was well-lit and temperature-controlled, with clean white walls lined with chests for the more fragile of the books, all sorted by an arcane system understood only by Aaron himself. Sam had never actually seen Aaron – only his hands, dark in thin latex gloves, long fingers holding a book open in some of the photos. They'd met in one of the chatrooms Sam had frequented for a while at the beginning of his research and they'd had several well-informed conversations. Sam had been impressed by Aaron's quick mind, depth of knowledge and ability to draw connections. He wasn't sure what had impressed Aaron about him, but Aaron had invited Sam to become a client and he'd become an invaluable resource.

“Hi, Aaron. How's business?”

“Business is good. I'm chasing a couple of interesting things right now. Maybe got a lead on a couple of pieces from Nag Hammadi,” Aaron said, satisfaction coming clear over the phone.

“Wow,” Sam said. “That's pretty big. Client or personal interest?”

Aaron laughed. “My clients' interests are my interests, you know that. And how are you? I've run down a couple more sources if you're still looking at themes of descent into the underworld. Or have you got something to follow up?”

“Yeah, actually. The Life of Jonathan Strange.”

“Really,” Aaron said thoughtfully. “To be honest, it's got those intriguing mentions of hell as a physical territory, but I sent it mostly as a curiosity. You've found something in it?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, evading. “What can you tell me about the history of the book?”

“Yeah, okay,” Aaron said. He faded out slightly and Sam could hear typing as Aaron accessed his notes. “Right. The Life of Jonathan Strange by John Segundus was published in London in 1820 by John Murray. That's a reputable publisher, Byron was another of his writers. So, maybe not reputable, but definitely successful, well-known. Jonathan Strange doesn't seem to have done well for him, though. We have plenty of Murray's letters and papers, I don't think it's mentioned seriously, although I think the author's name comes up a couple of times. Receptions, dinners. Not necessarily as an author.”

“But it was published as fiction,” Sam said. “Murray published novels?”

“Well, yeah. It's clearly fiction, Sam. I sent it anyway because there was... I don't know, something about the writing. It seemed like the magical system Segundus describes might be factual, or at least based in something he'd used. But I can't call it historical.”

“Okay,” Sam said. So Aaron had felt as he did, that the author was trying to describe something real, no matter how it was fictionalised. “And what about the actual book? Where'd you get it?”

Aaron hummed happily, obviously enjoying the chance to talk shop. “Auction, I think... right, yeah. A contact in London put me onto it, part of an estate sale there, some old guy who played with ouija boards a couple of times when he was young and wild. Before him the book was in the British Library, probably best not to ask how it got liberated. And it looks like was donated to them sometime in the 1920s. Before that, trail's dead.”

“No records?”

“No. The British Library moved and reorganised a lot of things during the Second World War to keep the most valuable books safe and they've had at least one major reshuffle since then. Stuff gets lost.”

“Are there other copies? I mean, had you heard of it?”

“I can ask around, but I think it's pretty obscure. I've got a cross-referencing file somewhere, just a sec... yeah, no. I've never seen another book reference it, nobody's asked me to get it before, no other dealers have talked about it to me. That auction, it was in a box I bought as one lot, everything else in it was on the fae. Which Jonathan Strange is, I guess, but-”

“But not like any fairy lore you're ever seen,” Sam finished. His head was starting to ache.

“No,” Aaron agreed. “There is one more thing to try, hold on.”

Sam waited, hearing more typing. “Okay,” Aaron said. “I usually like to tell my clients there's nothing they can't get from books and a carefully maintained indexing system, but sometimes I stoop to google like everyone else. You tried it yet?” Sam said he hadn't. “Right, well, there's not many hits. A few people on a paranormal message board have heard of it but haven't read it. Someone's put it in their dissertation on religion and the nineteenth century novel of manners. A dealer in Paris is selling one under 'fiction'. You can check these out yourself, but it doesn't look like it's on our radar, anyway.” He meant other hunters weren't looking for it, or anyone in his highly specialised corner of rare book dealing.

“What about the books it mentions?” Sam said hopefully. “The ones on this supposed English magic.”

“I know of a couple of those,” Aaron said. “The journals it talks about, no. But – let's see – The Language of Birds by Thomas Lanchester, a dealer told me the last copy was destroyed in a fire in the 1950s. There's still a copy of Death's Library, Peter Watershippe, in a private collection in South Africa. And Exercitatio Magica Nobilissima is in the Bodleian in Oxford. But, you know, that doesn't mean anything. Just that Segundus had heard the titles of some books meant to be about magic and decided to include them with the made-up ones.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I know.” He tried to hide his frustration. Aaron was doing his best; it wasn't his fault Sam had wanted so desperately for the book to be useful.

There was a pause and then Aaron said, hesitantly, “Really, Sam? If you want to know if any of it works, then I think... the only way might be to try it.”

“Maybe I'll do that,” Sam said heavily. “Thanks, Aaron. If you see anything else you think might be good for me...”

“Yeah, I'll send it along. You take care, Sam. Bye.”

Sam said goodbye and disconnected, throwing his phone behind him to his pillow and then following it, lying back on the bed. He shut his eyes and pressed hard on the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache threatening along the back of his neck and his stiff shoulders. He appreciated occasionally having a conversation with someone who wasn't Dean but this one hadn't helped at all; now he'd exhausted his only source of information on the book and he still didn't know whether it contained anything real.

Dean jarred him out of his worrying. “Who was that?”

Sam opened his eyes. Dean looked wary, some engine part dangling from his lax hold like he'd forgotten what he'd come inside for.

“My book dealer,” Sam said wearily. He pulled himself up and went into the bathroom, running the cold tap and splashing water on his face. Dean didn't follow him in but stayed where he was, near the door.

“What did he want?”

“To talk about books. Figured I didn't need your help for that,” Sam said, hoping against hope that he could still steer this one into a brotherly tease, rather than the fight he could feel starting to crackle the air between them.

“Sam,” Dean said. He looked impatient. “He was telling you to try something. What's some book guy telling you to try?”

“None of your business,” Sam said, resigned, stepping out of the bathroom and into the argument. He could feel his anger at Dean, at the whole stupid awful situation, waiting behind the glass cage he'd built for it in his mind, and let it out.

“Well, I'm making it my business. I don't know how many times I can say, let it the fuck go. The deal's happening and you're not trying anything. Not now.”

“Maybe it's not about you,” Sam snapped.

“What else could it be about?” Dean said back, frustration evident. “It's not even five weeks now, you think I don't-”

“Yeah, exactly!” Sam said, cutting him off. “And then I get to do this on my own. So maybe I'm gonna need some people around me then, don't you think? What do you want me to do, sit around and cry? You keep wanting me to tell you I can carry on, that I'll be fine, so you don't get to tell me no now, you just don't.”

He regretted it even as the words seemed to hurl themselves out of his mouth, watching the devastation it took Dean just a fraction of a second too long to hide. His anger drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving the familiar wash of fear and sadness behind it.

“You're looking for hunts?” Dean said quietly. “For on your own?”

Sam subsided. “No. Maybe. I'm... I don't know. I'm just looking.”

It was so clearly on the tip of Dean's tongue: no, you can't, it's not safe, don't go it alone. But there was nothing he could do. He'd said it himself, over and over, when it had seemed so far away and he could still convince himself, and Sam could see the moment he was forced to accept that Sam would really be out there, alone, that Dean would never know if he was safe or protected or in pain.

“Okay,” Dean said blankly. He looked down at the part he was carrying. “I'm gonna, uh, fix this. I'm gonna fix this, and then we'll go out for food or something. Okay? You hungry?”

“Yeah, I'm hungry,” Sam said, although he wasn't. He watched Dean go back out the door and then moved to the window, quick enough to see Dean lean against the car as if it was the only solid thing he knew, and bow his head in silence.

* * *

They went back to the same diner. As soon as they got there Dean pulled Marie the waitress off the to side and Sam watched her look pleased then disappointed then resigned, and then her gaze tracked Dean all the way back to their table.

“I told her I'd have to cancel tonight 'cause my brother was sick, so look sick,” Dean directed him, picking the menu up off the table and looking at it.

“I'm sick but I'm out for food?” Sam said sceptically. The girl looked at him and he did his best to look wan.

“Feed a cold?” Dean said. “I don't know, cough or something. If I'm not getting laid tonight you could at least try and get me some free eats.”

“I'm not stopping you getting laid tonight, Dean,” Sam pointed out.

Dean trained his eyes on his menu and muttered something about the moment being gone, so Sam gave it up. Not like he didn't understand the push-pull that had him and Dean fighting and then wanting to make sure the other was still near, but he didn't see why he had to put up with Dean in a sex-deprived bad mood.

“Okay,” Sam said, “so you want to push the job up a bit? It'll be dark by nine, we can get to bed at a time that's practically still last night and hit the road bright and early.”

“What's the rush?” Dean said.

“What's the problem?” Sam countered. “The deaths haven't been escalating that fast. We'll have to keep on eye on the situation to make sure we got the right spirit but we're not going to prove anything by sticking around just for a few more days.”

“You'll have to keep an eye on it,” Dean said briefly.

“Right,” Sam said. He was utterly drained of energy to go around on it again; he wished everything didn't refer back to the deal, somehow, seemingly infecting anything they talked about.

They did the salt and burn that night, hopping the fence from behind the dark church again rather than from the road. A waning moon offered just enough visibility, and Dean flicked his lighter to check the name on the headstone before they started digging. Sam moved the flowers there carefully first. They always tried to leave the grave looking undisturbed, which at this time of year, digging up fresh new grass shoots, wasn't usually very convincing. But people didn't expect graves to be dug up, instinctively shied away from the idea, and if they could ignore evidence that one had been, they would.

They dug companionably, Sam working at the head of the grave and Dean at the foot, their breath coming quickly in rapid, rhythmic sync, shedding layers of flannel and cotton as they warmed up. Finally they hit the coffin. Dean boosted Sam up out of the hole and finished uncovering it himself, removing the lid before reaching up for Sam to give him a pull out of the grave. He stumbled a little as he found his footing and for a moment Sam found himself holding his brother close, clutching at his shirt, Dean's breath loud in his ear. They disentangled and Sam started throwing salt liberally over the body while Dean retrieved the matches from his jacket.

“Just a second,” Sam said, awkwardly, letting the empty salt container fall to the ground as Dean prepared to strike the match. Dean raised an eyebrow at him, waiting. “Okay. Um, Marion Edwards, I hope you find whatever peace you can.”

Dean made an are-you-done twitch beside him. Sam nodded and looked away. Dean moved very slightly, so he was standing with his shoulder against Sam's, and dropped the match without comment.

* * *

They left the next morning. Dean was singing along with Metallica under his breath, which meant he was happy.

Sam sprawled on his side of the car feeling pretty good himself. They'd slept in, had a perfectly normal towel-snapping fight without it spilling over into other issues, and then grabbed donuts for breakfast. Now Dean had put the car to the first freeway exit they'd seen and Sam was reading, a novel for once rather than searching out death and mayhem across America, and thinking.

This was yet another of their unspoken arrangements, since the deal; going wherever Dean felt like taking them, whether that was the next job or a few days off, driving everywhere and nowhere Dean liked and following every sign for roadside attractions. (So far: a chicken-wire lobster that loomed over the highway, the biggest flea circus in the US and Sticky Vicky, who did unspeakable things with her unmentionables.) Sam usually liked it; for a little while it was like he really was just on a road trip with his big brother, and he could catch a little of the magic Dean saw in a length of road ahead of him and no particular destination he had to be. They fought less, too, like pretending for a while that the dark things weren't out there made the deal fade out with them.

This time, he appreciated it for another reason as well. Aaron had suggested that if he wanted to know if Jonathan Strange's magic worked, he was going to have to try it, and since Sam was pretty much out of other options he figured Aaron was right.

He even knew what spell he needed to try. The book related how, when Strange was learning and unable to contact other magicians, he had performed a spell to meet with a dead magician in a dream. The author claimed that this was how he had met Strange, by accidentally finding his way into that dream. The whole section was one that Sam had found particularly affecting, the author's simple wonder and excitement and happiness coming clearly out of his descriptions of the dream and the subsequent meeting; he thought that if any magic in the book was real, it was this.

However, Segundus was frustratingly vague about the spell itself, as he was with all the spells he discussed in the book. It was like the things he was talking about were so well known, or could be so easily found in other books, that he didn't feel the need to get them down properly in his. Sam wasn't too concerned: he'd performed enough rituals with crappy materials to know that it was intent and will that really mattered, and didn't the book even say that Strange himself had had to invent half the magic he used? But still, it was disappointing; Sam knew that if he tried and nothing happened he would always have to wonder if it was because it just didn't work or if there was something he'd missed, something else he should have done.

So Sam had chosen his spell. He sort of knew how he was going to cast it. And he'd picked his magician. Catherine of Winchester was from the supposed Golden Age of magic. She was mentioned only a few times in the book but she had, apparently, been taught by the magician-king Segundus wrote of with quiet reverence, the Raven King, and she'd already taught a student of her own posthumously, and, well. Of course it was mere coincidence but he thought her name had to be good luck somehow.

All he had to do now was find a silver basin, unknown quantities of guessed-at fresh herbs, a candle... and enough time away from Dean in stick-close protective mode to get it all, design a spell, cast it, and have a conversation with a dead woman in his sleep.

No problem.

* * *

“Battle Creek, twenty miles,” Sam read off the road sign. “Sound good? I could use a stop.”

“Sammy! What are you talking about, it's barely night,” Dean said comfortably. “But I guess if you gotta have your silk sheets already...”

“You know it,” Sam agreed. He wasn't tired at all – they'd pulled off at an empty, dusty rest stop and bought burgers from a van and man of questionable hygiene, and then he'd napped on a picnic table while Dean made jokes about beauty sleep and sunned himself on the hood of the Impala. But Battle Creek was pretty big; Dean could find a bar and a girl and he'd spend half the next day sleeping them both off. Meanwhile Sam could check antiques stores for the gear he needed and maybe even find a new age shop, if this part of Michigan was sufficiently open-minded. He didn't usually have much use for the places, which tended to be all mystical energies and black nail polish and blah blah (Dean shared their father's active contempt for them) but he could probably get some advice about herbs, and sometimes they stocked books reproducing old material that actually turned out useful.

They found an ordinary motel, shabby but clean, just outside the city. As Sam expected, Dean threw his duffel on the bed with scant regard, dug out his shaving kit, and disappeared into the bathroom. He always spent twice the time in the bathroom before he went out, but never looked appreciably different; Sam suspected he just spent some extra time admiring himself in the mirror.

He emerged looking scrubbed and satisfied and started pulling on clothes. “We finding a bar tonight? You're not wearing that, right? You smell like onions.”

“No, I'll change,” Sam said. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he'd stay in with his book, but he liked that Dean seemed to be in a good mood and it wouldn't seriously set him back to head out for a few hours. They'd have a couple of drinks, then Dean would start checking out his chance of action and Sam could probably get in some quality time with a Yellow Pages and an early night anyway.

They ate first, standing around a street vendor and eating one slice of of hot pizza after another, dripping cheese and threatening to mess each other up with greasy fingers, until they were full. Dean asked the vendor where the hot bars were and then badgered him about whether it was safe to leave cars in the area until Sam rolled his eyes and hauled him away, in the direction the vendor had indicated, watching Dean cast wistful glances at the car behind them.

Dean vetoed the first three bars they looked into and found the fourth acceptable just before Sam was about to get irritated.

“Dude, there is nothing different about this bar than any of the last three,” Sam said, scrutinising the chalked-up specials menu like the reason for Dean's weird behaviour might be written on it. “Were you waiting for a sign from above or something?”

“Are you blind, this bar has a pool table,” Dean said.

“We're working tonight?” Sam said, surprised; usually when they meant to hustle pool they planned it beforehand and went in separately. Even if only Dean played, if trouble started it could often be defused quick by Sam stepping up behind him, his opponents belatedly realising they'd taken on a little more than just one smart-mouthed hustler.

“Nah,” Dean said evasively, “we're okay. I just wanted to play a little pool. That allowed? I don't think this place would have much profit in it, anyway.”

“Yeah, fine, a little pool sounds good,” Sam said. Dean thwapped him affectionately on the chest, throwing Sam a quick grin over his shoulder as he headed to the bar.

“Two beers, whatever you've got,” he ordered. Sam leaned against the bar next to him and surveyed the room, part of his mind noting the bathrooms and the back exit behind the bar. Dean was right; it didn't look like a place with much profit in it, décor about fifteen years out of date and the glasses having the familiar smeary-scratched look of too many turns in the washer. But the clientele looked okay, enough guys in with their girls for Sam to relax, groups laughing and back-talking with a bartender as she collected glasses. It was the sort of place he'd preferred as a student, lively and lived-in, over the upmarket wine bars with their affectedly bored-looking customers and angular interior design.

“It's a nice place,” he said quietly to Dean, taking the offered beer.

“Sure is,” Dean said. “You want to grab the pool table for a couple games now? Probably there's regulars'll be in later.”

“Yeah,” Sam said and let Dean navigate them to the pool table occupying one corner of the bar. He looked at the rack of cues, testing the heads but as always ending up choosing the longest one there. Dean watched him, grinning, and Sam sighed back at him with the memory of years' worth of jokes about his freakish long arms.

They didn't speak, apart from Sam calling 'heads' and losing the break, as they racked the balls and started the game, moving smoothly around each other and the table. Sam caught Dean's placid mood and let himself be lulled by the spin of balls around each other into following Dean's game, which among friends was strategic and skilful, allowing his opponent to play every shot and responding to them like the ball was magnetised to his command. Dean could do that, work the table several shots ahead, was spatial and visual in a way Sam wasn't; Sam's preferred game was fast, flashy and short, possessing the table at the earliest opportunity and finishing off his opponent in as few unbroken runs as he could manage.

They took their time and when Dean potted the black almost half an hour later there was a small murmur; they'd caught an appreciative audience. One of the guys said something to Dean, friendly and open, and Sam watched him smile, shake his head and relinquish his cue, switching it with the guy for his seat a couple of steps away. Sam drained the last of his beer and went to get them another round, accepting and returning a couple of nods of acknowledgement on the way from obvious regulars at the table, a warmth spreading in his belly from more than the beer.

They didn't talk much, preserving and savouring the harmony of a good game. Sam sat back and soaked up his brother's presence, solid and reassuring, without letting himself dwell on why they were spending this quiet time together. Usually after a whole day on the road they wanted to take a few hours apart, but Sam suddenly felt like he couldn't bear not to have Dean in his sight, making the expressions and off-colour jokes he knew so well like he was giving them to Sam to imprint on his memory. As the night wore on, they switched to whisky, drinking enough to give Dean an excuse to turn the conversation sentimental, littered with 'remember when', Dean reminiscing about the parts of their childhood Sam was too young to recall with a faint note of urgency in his voice that Sam tried hard to ignore.

Dean had four weeks left.

* * *

Sam dimly remembered the plan. The plan had been that they would go out, Dean would drink a lot and pick up a woman, Sam would get to bed early, get up and get the stuff he needed and be back before Dean even surfaced for breakfast.

Sam wasn't sure what had happened to that plan but he doubted he was going to find it down the toilet pan he was currently communing with.

He heard rustling in the main room and groaned loudly for attention, hoping Dean hadn't drunk as much as he had, because one of them had to go out and forage for real coffee and it damn sure wasn't going to be him.

“Sam? What're you... oh,” Dean said, coming into the bathroom and spotting Sam huddled next to the toilet. “Not feeling so good?”

“Get me coffee,” Sam croaked. He didn't feel like he was going to throw up again but that gave him more time to focus on his brain hurling itself repeatedly onto the insides of his skull, so he curled up and rested his forehead on the cool, plasticky base of the toilet.

“Sure you don't need last rites?” Dean said. He sounded amused, like Sam hadn't spent his early adolescence patting Dean on the back while he upchucked the fruits of his teenage experimentation into a toilet bowl. At least Sam had had the grace to take his teenage alcohol tolerance testing away to Stanford, where he had dealt with the inevitable consequences manfully alone in the charmless dorm bathrooms. Dean owed him some back patting. He groaned again, trying to sound as pathetic as he could.

“Sammy, Sammy,” Dean said. Sam heard the tap run and then a cool damp flannel wiped at his sweaty forehead, Dean crouching beside him to brush his hair away from his face almost tenderly. “What am I gonna do with you, huh? You're not safe to be let out.”

Sam couldn't possibly deal with all the implications of that feeling the way he did. “Me? You did this,” he accused. “You were supposed to get laid and I was supposed to get an early night!” His voice got a little hysterical, setting his head pounding to a new rhythm. He whimpered.

“Yeah? Sounds good. We should do that later,” Dean said.

“I'm never going anywhere ever again,” Sam said. “No good comes of it.”

“Oh, you say that now,” Dean said, shifting to get up. “Now, how about a nice slice of pizza? Think maybe I've got a cold one in my pocket from last night, still plenty of grease on it.”

Sam bit him on the foot.

After some brief recriminations, including Dean demanding a rabies shot, Dean hauled Sam up and dumped him unceremoniously on the (now-closed) toilet, then handed him his toothbrush and two Tylenol and headed out to get their breakfast or, given the time, lunch.

Sam still felt crappy but he managed to struggle his way into half-decent clothing and venture out to the reception desk. The guy on duty eyed him grimly, but he handed over a Yellow Pages and a map of the city when Sam asked for them, and then Sam went back to the room, stuck them under his bed, and collapsed gratefully into it.

He barely opened his eyes when he heard Dean come back in, just muttered, “Coffee,” and kept his head carefully prone on the pillow; painkillers hadn't kicked in yet.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He grabbed Sam's hand where it was lying limp on the bedspread and guided it to the cardboard cup steaming on on the bedside table. “Just plain white coffee, I figured you didn't need to throw up that $6 syrupy shit you drink. There's sandwiches and a couple bananas when you're ready for them.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, feeling a little bit better. He pulled himself up and leaned against the wall, picking up his coffee and sipping gingerly. That made him feel a little bit more better, so he went on drinking. Dean was still sitting on his bed; Sam looked at him enquiringly and Dean smiled faintly and applied himself to his own sandwich, dropping crumbs on Sam's bed. Sam decided not to say anything. Dean was being pretty nice, what with the bananas and everything, so Sam could probably stand to brush his bed off later.

“So, hey,” Dean said, “you gonna go back to sleep? You mind if I go out for a little while?”

“Where are you going?” Sam said, surprised. He'd figured Dean had to be suffering at least a little, had assumed he'd work on the car if he bothered doing anything today.

“Uh, well,” Dean said, then trailed off.

“You meet a girl just now? Fast work,” Sam said. Okay, maybe that wasn't that surprising.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He sounded a little weird, but his gaze when he looked up at Sam was clear and steady. “Yeah, I gotta see a girl. That okay? It can wait if you think you might choke on your own vomit.”

“Urgh,” Sam said, even though it hurt his head to laugh. “No, I'll be fine, Dean. You go out, have fun. Call me when you're coming back.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He stood up, checked he had his car keys and his wallet. For a minute Sam thought he was going to say something else but he sketched a brief wave and went out without looking back.

Sam had good intentions, he really did. He was going to look for the antique shops and a new age shop, and then he was going to go shop in them. As soon as he'd had a little sleep.

* * *

He managed to get out the door by mid-afternoon, several promising areas marked on his map. He went back to the grim receptionist to ask about buses and soon he was on one heading into town. He leaned his head against the window and let the suburbs slip by him. Battle Creek seemed nice; the houses weren't big but they looked well-kept and a couple of them had kids playing outside under the watchful eyes of women talking on front stoops. As they got closer to the centre, some shops were boarded up and empty, many of the open ones advertising discounts or sales.

He got off the bus and, consulting his map, started to walk to the district where the Yellow Pages had listed several antiques stores. When he found it, they looked promising; dark inside, even dingy, the sort of places that functioned more as a place to store a jealous owner's collection than a business. Over the years, they and their father had found some good stuff in that type of store. Almost never relevant to the job at hand, true, but stuff that could languish in the trunk of the Impala for years until it turned out to be the very thing necessary for this creature or that spell.

He chose one at random to start and opened the door. A bell jangled rustily and a man, in his sixties at least and looking pretty rusty himself, appeared from behind a tall set of shelves filled with china eggcups.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi,” Sam said, trying a smile. “I'm looking for a silver bowl, about so big,” he mimed a circle about the size of a dinner plate.

“Era?”

“Doesn't matter. I just need something in pure silver.”

“Pure silver,” the man said thoughtfully. “No. Try Max Thomas, he deals in silver. Left when you go out, second street on the right. Thomas Antiques.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, slightly amused. He'd grown up around men with that gruff exterior, usually hiding a gruff interior and a generalised disappointment with life, but also a passionate knowledge about one thing or another and the willingness to share it.

But he didn't have time, so he followed the directions round to Thomas Antiques and repeated his question. This shop was clean and bright, with hand-lettered signs giving prices for everything and a fake-tanned proprietor who couldn't give Sam a history for anything without referring to notes, but he had a silver bowl, a little larger than Sam would have preferred – he still had to think about how he was going to avoid questions on this stuff from Dean – and the price was right, after a little haggling.

He didn't have high hopes for the new age shop, especially with his lingering headache, but Dean hadn't called him yet so he might as well give it a try. It was called 'Magickal Cauldron', a spelling which was in his experience a bad sign. Still, they couldn't go too wrong with herbs; a lot of the new age books were at least based on older herb lore and hedge witchery.

A bell jangled here, though with a rather more tinkly sound. The woman behind the counter was in her early twenties, dressed all in black, and her look invited him to comment on it.

“Hi,” he said, approaching the counter. He tried a nervous smile; she raised an eyebrow at it. But at least he could definitely get herbs here, judging by the scent of them hanging sweet in the air. He looked around and saw that one whole wall of the shop was cluttered with plant pots under bright artificial light, a herb garden in the middle of the city. And now he let his gaze travel, the rest of the stock looked almost sensible: a large, full bookcase, a display of semi-precious stones and another of amulets, what looked like a simple altar set up on one side of the store; none of those posters of wolves howling at the moon or tacky 'occult' jewellery.

“What can I do for you?” the woman asked. Her namebadge said 'Call me Kirsten!', but on the whole he thought better not. She didn't look like the her exclamation mark had been her idea.

“I need some advice, actually,” Sam said. He put his wrapped bowl on the floor near his feet and leaned closer to the counter. “I need to know what herbs to use for, um, true dreams. And protection.”

She regarded him. “Okay. It's a spell, I suppose? What's your aims?”

“It's not exactly... okay, yeah, it's a spell,” Sam said reluctantly. What new age types thought of as a spell and what hunters did wasn't always in agreement.

“Call it what you like,” she said. “You want to effect some sort of change physically or mentally?”

“Yes,” Sam said warily.

“Herbs are a probably a good choice for you,” she said. “You can think of it as an unsophisticated pharmacology.”

“Hey, I can take my business somewhere else,” Sam said.

“For fresh herbs, in this city? Well, you can go to Wal-mart. Rosemary, basil. You can make a lovely pesto.”

“Right,” Sam said, eyeing her warily. He thought about getting mad, but this was the only shop in the area. “Look, I'm not sure what happened just now but I'm here to buy, okay? Can we start over?”

She looked him over, and then seemed to relax. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. We get a lot of people coming in to gawk at the freaks. That or wanting us to convert.”

Sam tried a smile. “No problem. I guess that could get annoying.”

She inclined her head gracefully. “Par for the course, unfortunately. So, herbs of protection and true dreams?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “It's for... I have a problem. Sort of a personal problem. And I want to try and get some answers about it, and I've read a lot about the power of the subconscious, so I thought maybe if I could just unlock that...” The story slipped out smoothly, Sam falling into the part of the bashful half-sceptic, near enough the end of his tether by his many and wounding issues to try something his colleagues at the office would think was crazy, dressing it up like science for his own comfort.

“And your mom or girlfriend swears by herbs?” she said, but now she smiled at him and her manner was softer. She pulled a book from under the counter and started flipping through it.

He laughed. “You got me. An aunt, actually. She's a homoeopath.”

“Well, the subconscious is more powerful than we usually realise,” she said idly, reading a few of the post-it notes scattered along the tops of the pages. “Protection is a good idea. Do you sleep well usually? Dream vividly?”

Only when a demon sends them to me regarding his plans to take over the world with an infernal army with me at the head, Sam thought. He said, “Yeah, I sleep fine. Don't usually remember my dreams.”

“There's plenty of herbs indicated for dreams and protection. Do you have a preference for delivery?”

“Delivery?”

“Sure. Some herbs can be made into tea, some you need to sleep near, some you have to burn...”

“Right,” Sam said. He thought about Dean. “A tea would be good. Or ones that go under my pillow, or whatever.” Another thought struck him, “And, actually, do you have anything, um, English?”

She looked up at him from the book. “English? Do you mean actually grown in England?”

“Yeah, or, I don't know, particularly associated with English herb lore or traditions?” Maybe it wouldn't be important. But the book was so insistent about English magic, English magicians, the land and country itself; it couldn't hurt to try and use some of that when he was trying to summon Catherine of Winchester for the first time.

“Let me see,” she said doubtfully. She held the book open on one page with her finger and rummaged again under the counter, pulling out a catalogue. “Dandelion root is supposed to bring dreams of second sight, we do it as a tea, I think our supplier might be English... yeah, here it is.” She came around the counter and moved over to a set of shelves near the herb garden. Sam was surprised to notice how tall she was in stiletto-heeled lace-up boots, her posture straight and elegant.

“You know what to do with loose tea?” He shook his head and she grinned mischievously, her expression opening up. She picked up one of the packets and offered it to him. “Not many people do. No problem, these are teabags. You brew it for about three or four minutes, using water just off the boil, no sugar or milk, but you could add a little honey, dandelion can be bitter. You should drink a cup before bed, at least, but it wouldn't do any harm to drink it through the day.”

He took the packet with a nod, “Okay.” She was already looking over the other packets, her fingers nimble and quick as she sorted through them.

“Celery seeds,” she said, passing him another small packet. “I don't think they're edible, but in a muslin bag,” (she bent down and pulled one out of a cabinet under the display of herbs) “under your pillow they're another herb meant to bring on prophetic dreams. I don't think these are English, though.”

“The English thing isn't that important,” Sam said.

“Well, if you don't mind going Italian, garlic's a strong herb of protection,” she offered. “You can add a couple of cloves to the bag or cook with it.”

“Not just for vampires any more,” he joked.

“Hah, no. We don't carry garlic, you can get it so easily from grocery stores. Okay, maybe just one more, I think.” She rummaged on the display, her face intent, then went back into the cabinet. “Here. Pieces of master root, for the bag, again.” She moved back to the counter, brushing deliberately past Sam, and retrieved her book. “Master root is supposed to be good for protection, general psychic ability and luck, but it should also work to enhance the power of the other herbs and bind the whole thing together.” She handed over the last packet.

“That's great. I'll take these, thanks.” She smiled and went back behind the counter, ringing everything up. He paid and then, hesitating, said, “Can I ask you something?” She nodded, looking at him enquiringly. “I couldn't help but notice you don't seem that convinced about herbs. For, you know, someone working in...” he indicated the shop with a quick hand movement.

She laughed, surprised and wry. “You caught me. Yeah, to be honest I haven't personally had all that much success using herbs. I mean, I believe in natural magic but I don't think everything is meant to work for everyone, and I guess herbals just aren't where my head is. But my boss, the owner, she swears by them. The planting over there is all her work.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Sam said. “Thanks.” He lingered briefly, wanting to prolong the feeling of connection just a little.

She watched him for a moment, then said abruptly, “ Would you do something for me? Just a small experiment.”

“Er. Okay?” Sam said, hating that his mind went involuntarily to the knife strapped at the small of his back, breaking into the comfort he'd started to feel.

She moved back behind the counter, reaching down. Before Sam could get nervous her hands reappeared, holding a pack of cards.

She offered it to him, fanning the pack with a practised flick of the wrist. “Tarot's my poison. Will you pick a card?”

He chose one and offered it back to her. She indicated he should turn it face up onto the table. It was the Magician card, but not from any of the standard packs he knew; it depicted the magician as a young man with a grave expression, with dark hair crowned by a thin metal circlet and pale skin, and a black bird flying above.

“This is – isn't this Rider-Waite?” Sam said, breaking a suddenly oppressive silence. “That's not the magician card in this pack.”

She was staring down at the card, and Sam would have sworn she was as surprised as he was at the change in its face. “No, it isn't.” She looked at him, level and honest. “But I've always used tarot to show me what I already know, and I trust it. Please, keep the card.”

He wanted to refuse, didn't know if he was ready for what the cards thought he already knew, but if there was anything his whole life had taught him, it was that you never knew what was going to turn out to be important later. He tucked the card into his wallet.

She said dryly, “And I recommend Nitol for the sleep.”

He chuckled, at the welcome break in the tone as anything. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, I appreciate the help.”

“Good fortune,” she said, “and goodbye.”

* * *

Dean still hadn't called and Sam wondered where he was. It wasn't a bad thing – if Dean wasn't in the room it would give Sam a chance to get his new supplies stowed away before he got back to the room and avoid awkward questions. But it was unusual enough for Dean to spend a day with a girl, especially one he'd apparently found in a space of all of twenty minutes. He stopped in at a grocery store on his way back to the bus stop, getting the garlic and picking up a few other things: cookies, potato chips, a six-pack, some dried fruit, then adding bandages, antiseptic lotion and painkillers as he thought of their first-aid kit. He passed a Chinese takeout and went in to buy sweet and sour chicken, spring rolls, fried rice, crispy duck and Kung Pao beef; he could eat it hot and Dean wouldn't mind it cold, if he didn't get back in time.

The bus ride back wasn't particularly more interesting than the one out had been. The Impala wasn't in the lot and Sam felt glum at the prospect of a whole evening on his own. He didn't begrudge his brother his choice of entertainment, and to be fair Dean had toned down the chasing after women an awful lot in the past couple of months, but still he couldn't help being a little jealous of Dean's time and attention, especially now.

He got his stuff squared away. The bowl went into the bottom of his bag, protected by socks and a couple of rolled up sweatshirts. He wasn't sure if it would matter if it got a couple of dents in it but he hoped not. Pure silver wasn't particularly hardy. He pulled out his purchases from the magic shop and started making up the muslin bag; he didn't intend to use it yet but he thought it wouldn't do any harm to prepare it in advance. He had some problems with the garlic – a couple of cloves, she'd said, but should he peel them? Or cut them up? In the end he threw in three cloves, raw and peeled, adding the celery seeds and master root and shaking it up. That went in a pocket of his bag. He hoped it wouldn't make his stuff smell too badly of garlic.

Once he was finished he attacked the rapidly cooling Chinese, finding a plastic fork and eating straight from the containers. Once he'd eaten he pulled out a beer, turned on the TV and sat on the bed and stared at it. He tried hard to banish the thought that kept sliding in: that he was devoting all his time now on this long shot, based only on a book known (where it was known at all) as fiction, and that if it didn't come off this long night alone might be all his future held.

He ended up taking a long, hot shower and going to bed early. Then he was muzzily awake and groping for a weapon before he consciously registered the quiet sounds that had woken him.

“Not gonna shoot me, are you?” Dean's voice, pitched low.

“No,” Sam leaned up on his elbow, “you can switch the light on, I don't mind.”

There was a pause and then the bathroom light clicked on. Sam squinted at the figure of his brother moving efficiently between the rooms as he got ready for sleep.

“What time is it?”

“About ten after eleven,” Dean answered. He sat on the edge of his bed and Sam watched the tense line of his bare back as he wiped a hand over the back of his head, concerned at something he couldn't quite name.

“Had a good day?” he said cautiously. “I don't need too many details.”

Dean gave a rasping laugh. “You're not getting them. Yeah, it was fine.”

He didn't seem inclined to go on. Usually he loved giving Sam the play-by-play, mocking concern and asking Sam if he remembered any of this sex thing, was it coming back to him at all. Sam's belly clenched painfully at the sudden thought that maybe Dean had managed to find himself a girl who might matter, someone he really liked, someone he would would want to spend his last weeks with; he couldn't control the reaction, no matter how much he knew he ought to, and no matter that he really did feel that Dean deserved it, if he'd actually found a girl who was worth him.

“So...” Sam ventured.

“So, what?” Dean switched his bedside lamp on and got up to turn the bathroom light off, plugging his cell into its charger on his way back to bed.

“So, you want to stick around?”

“No,” Dean said. “I figured we'd get back on the road in the morning. That okay for you?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam said, still feeling like there was something he was missing. “Did you eat? There's Chinese if you want it. Cold Chinese.”

Dean put off the light and lay back. “Save it for breakfast, I'm not hungry.”

“'Kay. Night, Dean.”

“Night, Sam-boy,” Dean said.

He was still tired but Sam felt strangely hyper-aware of his brother, almost the way he was when they hunted together, when long experience and training kept him knowing where Dean was and what he was doing. Dean couldn't settle; he wasn't tossing and turning, too much in control for that, but it was obvious to Sam he wasn't relaxing into sleep. He turned over and lay on his side facing Dean's bed. He thought he could feel Dean watching him, protective and apprehensive, like he thought if he shut his eyes Sam wouldn't be there when he opened them again in the morning.

He was aware of Dean's alertness, but he was still surprised when Dean spoke, almost murmured, like he hoped Sam wasn't awake to hear him.

“You know I just want to keep you safe, right?”

Sam opened his eyes. He couldn't tell if Dean could see him. He answered in a similarly soft tone, not wanting anything to intrude on the private, quiet space they'd made. “Yeah, Dean. I know that.”

Dean didn't answer but he shifted and Sam could tell he was ready to go to sleep now. He shut his own eyes.

* * *

Dean hurried him into the car and onto the road the next morning, and that was where they mostly spent the next few days. They didn't fight: whatever truce they'd managed to reach over the pool table that night, it held through the normal daily irritations of life on the road. Sam thought Dean was feeling the ticking clock as keenly as he himself was, and assumed it made Dean as anxious as it made Sam to preserve the goodness between them. Dean played his tapes steadily, one after the other in some system that, to Sam's vague recollection, seemed connected to when he'd first heard the songs.

Sam tried to write a spell of summoning.

It wasn't easy. He wasn't even sure what language to use; Catherine of Winchester had lived in England in late medieval times, so she might have spoken French or the growing Middle English vernacular or Latin. Sam thought he could manage a spell in Latin, but if that was all she could talk in when she came he was in trouble.

Nest step was what he had to include. Segundus spoke admiringly of Strange's work in realising he had to add something to the spell to get the summoned person to show up in the dream the magician wanted them to; evidently this was some huge innovation. But that was the only element of the spell he went into detail on, as apparently the rest of it was available in 'Ormskirk', whoever that was and whatever the book. He only mentioned, further in the book, that it was necessary to use something to find the person being summoned and give them a path to arrive – and then they needed a gift.

Sam tried to puzzle it out; it was turning out harder than he'd expected. If the book was true, then Catherine of Winchester existed – somewhere. She'd taught another magician from... well, the afterlife, he supposed. He'd had proof enough of the literal existence of hell, and even if he didn't quite want to put his faith in a heaven it made sense that there would be some sort of limbo. How to find her there, he didn't know. He didn't have anything of hers, or even know what she looked like; he only had her name. Which was also his name. Could he use Winchester blood? Not that it was actually in any way related to hers, but if this system functioned on a symbolic level it might work. He wished he had someone to ask but he just didn't know of anybody who performed magic this way; the ritualised magic of modern Gardnerian Wicca was probably the most similar he knew, but he'd already looked in that tradition for ways to help Dean and whatever this was, it was different. In fact he didn't really know of any magical framework that was in the habit of calling up the dead for a quick chat. If any of it worked he was going to be the expert on Segundus' system, if he wasn't already just from reading the book and thinking about it.

If he was going the symbolic route with locating her, he might as well do the same with the route. Sam could envision a road no problem, he saw enough of them. So that just left a gift. What did you get the dead magician who had everything? And in a dream? A memory, maybe; something of himself, to show her that was serious. He didn't know if she knew about America, or cared, if she would be interested in any of things that made up his life and history. There was family, and love; those were universal. But he didn't want to give any of it up, Dean or his father or Jess, or that one precious time he'd seen his mother's spirit, especially when there might be other ways.

For a moment he flashed back to when he'd woken up from what he'd later learned was his own death, pain and shock and a glancing inexplicable sublimity all mixing so he didn't know what he thought or felt. And then, he remembered, the hunger: he'd been starving, desperation for food like he'd never felt before, and not just for food but to eat, to chew and swallow and feel his stomach full and satiated. His first meal had been takeout but it had been the best thing he'd ever tasted, every flavour and texture new and intense and wonderful.

Yes. He could offer her food: the memory of a crisp, tart apple, steak cooked perfect and tender, bittersweet strong dark chocolate. That was what to give the dead.

Actually writing the spell came easier once he worked out what had to be in there. The rest wasn't hard; he was no poet, but probably it was best to keep it simple and difficult to misunderstand, since he wasn't using her language. The tone was more important, anyway.

'I summon you, Catherine of Winchester. I use Winchester blood, I create a path along __ to motel __, for you to arrive in my dreams on the night of __, and I offer you sustenance.'

He could fill in the locations and times when they stopped for the night. As for the rest, it might not be pretty but it covered the necessities. He was running out of nights and he'd rather leave himself time to have multiple tries than spend days refining a spell that turned out not to work anyway.

Now how to get rid of Dean. He wasn't sure whether the dream-meeting would have an effect in reality, whether he'd talk or move in his sleep, and he didn't need Dean getting suspicious at this point. But Dean wasn't going out nights much any more, and when he did he wanted Sam to join him and they left together. He was even getting edgy about short periods apart; Sam didn't know if Dean thought Sam was up to something and intended to forestall anything he might do, which he wouldn't want to warn Sam about, or if he just wanted Sam near, which he wouldn't want to admit. Either way, he didn't want to force a separation, not when it would probably mean starting a fight he didn't have the heart for.

There was one other option. Dean was down a stinking hangover; Sam would be remiss as a younger brother if he didn't remedy that.

* * *

Sam had had his spell written for three days, he was drinking enough dandelion tea to set himself afloat, and the garlic in the pocket of his bag had gone rotten and had to be replaced. All because Dean had rediscovered a mad passion for night driving and they'd spent one night in the car and two pulling into motels so late that Sam was woken from a fitful doze and could just about drag himself into the room before falling straight back asleep with his shoes on. Sometimes Sam thought he wasn't the only one in the family with psychic powers.

“Think we can get to a bed at a decent hour tonight?” Sam said eventually, on the fourth night, dusk swallowing up the car and Dean's foot still leaden on the gas. “All this sleeping in the car is fucking my back.”

“That's the point, I'm trying to shrink you,” Dean said jovially. Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eye; his expression was serious, at odds with his tone.

“What's the matter?”

“I've been thinking about the FBI,” Dean said.

“Okay,” Sam said. He thought about the FBI too, on and off, but mostly it was in a corner of his mind and labelled 'worry about this later'.

“Don't get mad,” Dean warned. His voice had a scraped tone, dark and unhappy. “I'm going to write a confession, to everything. And I'll tell them I made you, all of it, that none of it was your fault. So then you just have to get it to that guy, Hendrickson, and you can – I mean, you'll have to lay low for a while, it's not going to get you off the hook completely. Go travelling, do a round-the-world trip or something. But they'll be looking for me more than you.”

Sam slouched in his seat and stared out of the window.

“Sam,” Dean said, his tone wavering somewhere between sharp and desperate.

“Yeah,” he said. “Dean, do whatever you have to, okay. But I can't think about that now. Okay? I don't want to fight. But I can't deal with this as long as you're still here.”

“Okay. I'm not trying to make this harder on you, Sammy. I just want to...”

Look after me, I know, Sam thought. Sometimes the biggest burden of this whole horrific year was letting Dean look after him. He said aloud, “It's okay.” Then he leaned forward and flipped the tape deck on.

They pulled in at a truck stop not long after, ate in the diner alongside, carefully keeping to neutral topics like whether the reheated lasagne might contain killer spores. Sam did his best to rally, letting the conversation take him to the Spanish flu epidemic, the possible role of demons of pestilence in the Black Death, and the threat of avian flu, and Dean called him a geek and made fun of him and listened attentively. Dean didn't say anything when Sam went into the little convenience store and came out with a six-pack and a litre of Jack Daniels. Sam felt a little sick at using Dean's worries and guilt against him, but he squashed it. He wasn't letting the FBI have his brother's memory like that, at least as much as he wasn't going to let any demon have his soul.

A couple of hours later they were ensconced in a motel that was more economical than it was comfortable, sprawled on the same bed watching really badly dubbed anime. Dean was rambling about some weird tentacle-ridden anime porn he'd seen once and, he confided drunkenly to Sam's eternal horror, enjoyed more than he'd been comfortable with. As far as he knew, they were both drinking liquored-up coffee. In actual fact, he was getting steadily drunker on something that was more coffee'd-up liquor, and Sam had replaced his share with the herbal tea about five cups ago.

By eleven Dean was pretty much tanked. He wasn't slurring his words – although he kept starting sentences and forgetting to finish them – but he was getting uncoordinated, wriggling around on the bed trying to get his boots off without undoing the laces and giving Sam clumsy, frequent touches that he probably imagined were subtle, throwing an arm about him in a half-hug as he waved the remote at the TV and flopping onto him when he reached for his drink. Sam accepted the affection docilely, patting Dean back occasionally to keep him smiling, glad that alcohol didn't make Dean maudlin or inclined to tell secrets; he already felt a bit dirty, like he'd roofied Dean for his own purposes. Soon Dean was yawning and it didn't take much encouragement to get a couple of glasses of water into him and then him into bed. Sam turned the TV down almost to mute and sat on the bed next to him, Dean curled up next to his hip, and waited until Dean's face had been smoothed into sleep, his breath coming with a heavy whistle, for almost half an hour.

He tried not to contemplate what he was about to do, trying to set his mind firmly onto innocuous things whenever it returned to worry. The book was so vague, there were almost certainly steps he hadn't taken, precautions he hadn't thought about. He wondered whether he should leave a note: he'd didn't know if the dream would be of the normal kind, just with a special guest star, or whether it was more like a separate land, one where he could be harmed or attacked by Catherine of Winchester or something else. He couldn't actually say he was a hundred per cent sure of waking up. But he was set on it; he'd done too much work, taken up too much of these last weeks, to abandon it all without even making the attempt.

Sam looked down at his peacefully sleeping brother. Then he took a deep breath and went to make his preparations.

Getting ready for bed, first; brushed teeth, washed face, comfortable sleep clothes. Then he unearthed the silver bowl and filled it with water. Working mostly by instinct, he added some of the dandelion tea, now cold, and a piece of the master root. The little muslin bag, filled with herbs, he put under his pillow.

Now the painful bit. He didn't mind injuries from battle, when the adrenaline stopped it from hurting too badly, and he was used to patching himself and Dean up, but he was still squeamish about deliberately making himself bleed. He pulled a knife from his bag and, testing the edge, cursed softly. He didn't want to have it hurt any more than it had to using a blunt knife. He had a whetstone in his bag but honing the blade might wake Dean, who even in a drunken sleep was sensitive to sounds he associated with weaponry.

He slipped out to the car and rummaged in the trunk for another knife. His gaze passed over the Colt and he picked it up out of habit, running his fingers across the Latin inscription; he wasn't much into guns for themselves, unlike Dean, but he did find the Colt's weight reassuring, liked the power of it he could almost feel thrumming against his fingertips. He opened the barrel idly and frowned. How many bullets did they have for it? That was Dean's department, now Bobby had taught him how to make the replacements, but he'd thought Dean was trying to keep a full chamber; there was one missing. Maybe. He put the question aside for later, beginning to feel the chill in his thin sweatpants and t-shirt, picking a knife and taking it back indoors.

He checked on Dean again before heading into the bathroom with the knife and a small vial. He'd rolled onto his back, turning the whistle into soft snores, but he was still sleeping soundly. He ran a flame under the knife, gave it a moment to cool, then made the cut as quickly and efficiently as he could, high on the soft skin of his inner forearm, grimacing at himself in the mirror. He poked at the wound to encourage it to bleed, thinking unhappily of the bruise he was going to have in the morning, then collected some blood. He staunched the wound, slapping it quickly with antiseptic cream and bandaging it neatly.

The blood went into the water in his silver bowl, making a Rorschach pattern as he swirled it all with a finger. That went under his bed, as near to directly under his pillow as he could manage. He set a candle on his bedside table, putting it carefully into a flame-retardant holder and lighting it. Last thing to do was to take a sleeping pill. Then he recited his spell and lay down, staring into the steady candle flame and thinking as hard as he could about food, bringing to mind the strongest sense memories he could of all the tastiest, best food he'd ever eaten.

* * *

He woke up in the motel room. He was instantly aware of it as an awakening but his body seemed to disagree; he felt a strange sort of wrenching as he sat up and, turning around, realised his body was still lying in the bed. He stood up and bent over it, ascertaining very quickly that both the breathing and the pulse of the body in the bed were regular and strong (although it was frowning in its sleep). He knew that technically the body was his, but oddly felt no more real attachment to it than he did to Dean's body, still sleeping in the other bed; or even less, for as he thought about Dean's vulnerable form he was suffused with protectiveness and love, and as he thought about his own only a feeling of polite interest. To be separated from it seemed quite unalarming.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a meaningful cough behind him. He looked around and found that he was being regarded by a woman, sitting quietly in a chair. Behind her, the window showed the parking lot fading into an overgrown dirt path, surrounded by purple heather and lit by a setting sun. The woman was entirely unremarkable-looking: perhaps forty, of more or less medium size with a more or less medium face, wearing brownish hair and blueish eyes. But those eyes, when her gaze met his, were intelligent and sharp and behind them seemed to reside such great awareness and power, that Sam knew immediately that he was in the presence of a strong and old magician.

“Catherine of Winchester,” he said. “... Thank you for coming.”

“I suppose I must thank you for inviting me,” she replied dryly. “And your name, sir?”

“Sam Winchester.”

“Ah!” She regarded him more keenly. “Of course. A pleasure. I wondered at the inclusion of 'Winchester blood' in the summoning. My own family line has long since died out, in England and elsewhere. But your naming and use of your own blood as mine was intelligent.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. If he had had nerves to be conscious of at that point, he would have felt unnerved. “I wasn't sure it would work. I wasn't sure if any of it would work, really.”

“Really?” she echoed. “Odd. You must be aware that you have a considerable reservoir of power at your disposal? A simple request would have done as much to bring me here.”

“What?” Sam said, thinking about all that time he'd spent gathering props and worrying about his spell. Belatedly it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to be showing a little more confidence in his own abilities. “Right.”

She stared at him in a way that suggested he was turning out to be a disappointment ahead of schedule. “Evidently you are not aware. But perhaps you are under the impression that the demonic hierarchies enjoy taking chances. You know, I suppose, of the demon Azazel's interest in you?”

“Yes,” Sam said defiantly. “He was interested. He's dead now. Me and my brother, we killed him.”

She did look surprised at that. “Indeed? I knew that there were – problems in Hell, currently. I hadn't realised they were precipitated by Azazel's death. This person is your brother, I suppose?” She gestured towards Dean without looking at him. “And also operating under a demonic claim. What a very interesting family you're part of, Mr. Winchester.”

“That's why I summoned you,” Sam said urgently; he could tell that she would control the conversation forever if permitted to do so, and he had no idea how much time he had. “I died, and my brother made a deal with a demon, a crossroads demon, to bring me back. She gave him a year and now he's only got a few weeks left, and I need to find a way to get him out of the deal.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I see. Why then, may I ask, did you choose to summon me? I can't think I'm particularly known for my traffic with demons, which was, I have to say, non-existent.”

Sam shrugged. He said finally, “You've had a student before, like this, so I thought you'd come, and your own teacher was supposed to be a brilliant magician. And because... because you're a Winchester, sort of, and I was brought up to think that was the most important thing there was.”

“And because you are desperate,” she said, her tone betraying no emotion.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. He looked at his hands. “I'm desperate. Please, if there's anything you can tell me, anything I can use. I can't lose him like this.”

“And yet you shall,” she said, and she did sound regretful. “A bargain with a demon cannot be broken, or escaped, or avoided.”

“But it can,” Sam argued, leaning forward. “The demon he made the deal with, we'd met her before. She made a deal with a guy for his wife's life and we stopped her collecting, Dean threatened her with exorcism and she backed down.”

“She did not back down,” Catherine said flatly. “Do you think demons live as you do? They are in all the places their kind are; each one knows all things that demonkind know, and there are demons of prophecy as there are of other things. If this demon relinquished the deal as you say, then it is because she knew your brother would return to her and she placed more value on him. Have you something to offer that she will value even more?”

It was devastating, to be told so bluntly that the whole thing had been in motion from so early – and yet hadn't he already known as much? Felt it was a road they'd been on since his father made his deal, since the demon killed Jess, since it killed his mother? “She's dead. She told me it wasn't her marker any more, and I killed her.”

“So you see, Sam,” Catherine said, and he thought she was trying to be gentle, “she was merely trading something of worth for something that wasn't. And whoever controlled her gave her life away, in turn, for the keeping of your brother's soul. Demons have had many millennia to get used to human ways. There's no shame in being caught by theirs.”

“You're telling me there's nothing I can do,” Sam said dully. “My brother's going to hell, for me, and you're saying I can't stop it.”

“I'm sorry. There may be another way, other advisers for you. But English magic is not very much concerned with the ethereal species.”

“I've looked everywhere else I know,” Sam said. He let her words go through his mind again and then, half-remembering one of the questions he'd thought to ask her, he repeated, “English magic. That's what the book kept talking about. English magic is concerned with fairies. Can fairies help me with Dean's deal?”

He was surprised by the expression that crossed her face, sadness and anger and regret. “I must urge you strongly against work with fairies, even if you could attract them, which is by no means certain. Fairies were... difficult, even in the best of times, with the most skilled and stubborn practitioners of the profession England ever produced. I found them so. The Black King himself could not always obtain what he wanted from his fairy servants.”

“The Black King, that's the Raven King? John Uskglass?” She nodded a brisk of-course. “He was real?”

“He is very real,” she said, amused but also (he thought) shocked, and trying to hide it. “Whose magic do you imagine you do? Where did you find the magic that brought me here, if not in the work of my lord?”

“In a book called The Life of Jonathan Strange,” Sam said slowly. “It's the only mention of the Raven King I've ever seen, in literature or fact. He's not a part of English history.”

Catherine of Winchester looked at Sam, and he felt something ancient looking out at him alongside her sharp intelligence, reading everything he was in the air between them. Then, simply, she began to speak. “English history is a part of him. He ruled over the North of England for three hundred years. He taught me there, in his court filled with the fairies he commanded, and with the best men and women of Europe, who allowed him to lead them. He ruled over his country, watching over his people from every doorway and every mirror, wherever he was called. And then he left, for England needed him no longer, and gave his attention to his lands in Faerie and Agrace, on the other side of Hell, and lent his wisdom to any land where he travelled.

“He returned to his homeland once, when it was threatened from across the sea, and he worked a powerful magic two centuries in the making, the spell of Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell. Through that pair, rivals and friends as they were, he returned knowledge to the trees and stones and land of England, so that they knew once more to answer magicians' calls, and magic flourished again in England.

“That magic ended with the last war of the thrones, what you call World War Two. The last magicians, who had put forth such great effort towards England's survival, found that their spells no longer answered, their power and alliances broken. Iron had entered the country's bones and their countrymen's blood; fairies, who had been reluctant to return to England, began to refuse to do so. The land that had bred and nourished them slept and the last of England's magic sank deep into the earth, but not without allowing one last sacrifice; the last magician commanded England to forget her king and her magicians, to banish the memory of the books and spells that could no longer protect her. Thus history became what you know; and England a place I, my kind, and my king, cannot recognise as our own.”

She had fallen into a lulling, storytelling rhythm. Sam felt like the story had settled deep into his mind without passing his ears, recognised somewhere deep in his sense of self.

“Erm,” he said.

She relaxed and smiled, no longer proud Britannia relating her own descent. “Eloquent. But yes: that is the story of English magic; that is why I'm afraid it, or I, will not be of use to you now.”

“But this is America,” he said, “is there no magic still here? Nothing at all?”

“You mean one of the colonies?” she said doubtfully. He gaped at her. “Oh, I see from your expression that is not correct. I apologise. You must understand, Sam, my shade is of England, and frankly also my interest. I can know what happens to her, but many other things remain hidden from me.”

“No... I mean, I see. But yes, America started as an English colony. It was settled by Puritans in the sixteen hundreds.”

“After my time, I'm sad to say,” she said lightly. “No, I'm sorry. The connection is between English magic, my magic, and England herself, the very land and sky; it is fundamental. For... American magic, you must try the land and the people of America.”

“You mean the Native tribes?” he said, his mind running over what he knew of Native American lore. He'd never seriously considered their myths or their magic to help Dean; the cosmology didn't map, for one thing, and anyway it wasn't his to play around with.

“Yes, perhaps,” she said. “That context isn't clear to me. Do you have wild spaces in America still? Clear horizons without sign of people? Woods and rivers and moors that may kill a man, without he is clever and careful? I dare say fairies may at any time be closer than anyone realises. I merely wish you to understand that I have no certainties for you in that regard; only the advice that contacting fairies is easier than it may seem, and controlling them far more difficult.”

He leapt on the opening. “So they can be contacted?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. “They can be called. Whether they will answer, by which I mean present themselves at an appointed time and place, as I have, is a different matter. Whether you will get anything useful from them depends on many things you have no hope of knowing or controlling. You draw a fairy's attention at the considerable risk of getting it.” She eyed him, with what he hoped was favourable judgement. “But you have power, and apparently the determination not to be forestalled. Don't be afraid of using your strength with them; they understand that as they do nothing else.”

He didn't really know what power she thought he had, or how to use it, but he was beginning to get a sense of what magic was to her and he thought she wouldn't be able to explain it to him. If he couldn't use it, if he couldn't draw it out of himself and his place in the world, there was no one who could teach him.

“I understand. Thank you,” he said.

“My fairy-servant called himself Jackie Blackstone. He was as sensible as fairies ever are, and,” she grimaced, a tiny expression of elegant distaste, “as greedy. Summon him by that name. But have a care, Sam Winchester. They will have considered every element of everything they offer you so that it is well for them. You must do the same. Fairies are not demons, but they, too, offer bargains, never gifts.”

“I'll remember.”

She favoured him with a real smile, and for a moment he thought he could see her power, the woman and magician she'd been with her fairy-servants obedient at her side and a strong, old land waiting to bow at her word.

“And call upon me again. It's been a long time since anyone cared for my advice. I'd like to know what you do with it.”

“Thank you, Catherine,” he said again. “Goodbye.”

She rose from her chair and made a curtsey, and then the motel disappeared in a sweep of blackness before his eyes.

He woke up for real as abruptly as he'd 'woken' in the dream. He wanted to lie and just think for about three years. He hadn't imagined he'd have anything like such success. He needed to make notes, immediately, before he forgot anything, and then work out what information he had now and what he could do with it.

“Sam!”

But he hadn't woken up. He'd been woken, by dangerous outside forces.

“Sam, get your ass out that bed and get me McDonalds! I feel like shit! I'm gonna drown myself in this toilet!”

Okay, maybe it was no less than he deserved.

* * *

Dean complained about his hangover all the next day, which was longer than he had complained about broken limbs, the pneumonia that had put him in hospital as a teenager, and fatal heart failure. He blamed Sam for it, which Sam had to accept as his due, although he framed it as revenge from his previous hangover rather than explaining his need for a free evening in which to perform questionable magic. Dean at least crawled back to bed and slept long enough to let Sam dispose of the water in the basin, which swirled clear down the drain, and the herbs from his little bag, which had gone dusty and hard like they'd been dried for many years in a cold stone room.

Then he sat down with a hot coffee, his laptop and a fresh pad of paper and tried to organise his thoughts.

He needed to remember the information she'd given him accurately, the stuff about the changes in English history and American magic and how to work with fairies. But his mind kept returning insistently to what she'd said about him, about the power he had. He'd assumed, when his visions stopped with the Yellow Eyed Demon's death, that whatever power he'd had had been given to him, forced on him, by the demon or by his blood inside Sam. But Catherine clearly hadn't meant that. She'd implied he had magical power of his own, power he could use with the dead and fairies, and she clearly associated magic with a sort of pantheism and the power of natural living things.

He tried not to think about all the time he'd wasted, if it was true. If he had power of his own that could help Dean – he didn't have time, to find it and learn it and use it, not before the deal came due. If he'd spent the last eleven months looking everywhere outside and the whole time there'd been something within him... no. He wasn't thinking about that unless and until he had to.

Okay. Jackie Blackstone, that was the name she'd told him to use, her own 'fairy-servant', and she'd said he was greedy, that anything he offered would be as good for him as it would be for Sam and Dean, so he had to take care...

He heard Dean grumble from underneath his mess of blankets. His head appeared, tousled and bleary, followed by an arm as he tried to punch his pillow into plump comfort again.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said absently, trying to remember exactly what Catherine had said about fairy summoning. She hadn't given him a spell, had she... but she'd said that thing at the beginning, about how with his power a simple request would do, did that apply to fairies as well?

“Did I say anything stupid last night? Or weird?” It was the tone that caught Sam, the lightness and uncaring too deliberate. He switched gears and racked his memory for what Dean had said the previous night that he might think was stupid. He never usually cared; he said things that were stupid and weird all the time, if he thought they might get a rise out of Sam.

“You finally admitted I'm better-looking, smarter and more successful with women than you,” Sam said, aiming for the same lightness his brother had. “It may have been the most intelligent thing you ever said.”

“Don't think I would've said anything that stupid,” Dean said, sounding relieved. “I'm going back to sleep now.” He pulled the covers over his head.

“Okay,” Sam said tolerantly. He wondered what Dean was so concerned he might have said. Maybe he was just worried he'd taken part in some big emotional display and forgotten about it. Sam went back to his notes. He had to get this conversation straight in his head.

Twenty days.

* * *

They stayed in the motel another night, getting pizza delivered. Sam worked all evening, rechecking the internet for fairy lore while Dean watched TV quietly. The next morning Dean woke Sam up by stripping his covers off him and yelling his name. Sam moaned irritably and tried to curl up around his pillow.

“Lemme 'lone.”

“Come on, you're sleeping your life away!” Dean said heartlessly. He was already dressed, his skin showing a healthy flush and his eyes cleared of the previous day's hangover.

“Says the guy who only got out of bed yesterday to throw up,” Sam said. He'd kept coming alert on the verge of sleep, convinced he'd remembered something new about what Catherine had said, some more exact phrasing, only to find the information already in his written reconstruction of their conversation. But he was cold without his covers so he got up at Dean's urging and shuffled grimly into the shower.

They got back onto the road. It was a warm spring day, the sun shining through the windshield; Sam took off his jacket and Dean wound his window all the way down and rested his arm there, drumming his favourite riffs against the door.

Sam looked out of the window, The Life of Jonathan Strange waiting on his lap, and thought about fairies. Summoning Catherine of Winchester had gone well, very well, but it wouldn't do to get overconfident. Even without her warnings against dealing with them, he would have been wary; fae were prideful and mercurial and human life didn't mean much to them.

He flipped the book open. It, and Segundus, were at least vindicated; the magic he described was obviously real and at least partly functional, even if English magic as a general trend was apparently defunct. He should probably let Aaron know. He didn't really have time right now to wonder at the sheer scale of what she had described, England's last magician changing whole swathes of his country's history, and surely she had only scratched the surface. The researcher in him disapproved strongly, imagining the things that could have been known to hunters, useful to them, but another part of him appreciated the reckless grandeur of the move.

Fairies had changed Jonathan Strange's life, but he hadn't actually had many personal dealings with them. Sam felt a bit weird now using the book like a textbook; it changed things somehow, to think everything in it had really happened to someone. Strange's wife's kidnap into Faery by one particular member of the race with a grudge against him had been an entertaining twist as a figment of Segundus' imagination. As a factual account, it was nearer a horror story. These fairies collected humans like Sam collected newspaper cuttings, and Sam didn't think it was just fraternal affection that made him think Dean would be a prize to them; Sam had to know exactly what he was doing before he brought them to him and Dean.

“You got any hunts?” Dean said out of the blue. Sam had assumed they were still just driving, but he switched track easily enough.

“I guess, if you want one.” He leaned over his seat, grabbing the laptop bag from the back seat and rummaging through it for his journal, and the loose pages in the back where he noted down possibilities as he found them. “Possible poltergeist in Wisconsin, no fatalities. Two mysterious deaths in Iowa. Will o' the wisps in Louisiana. Nothing exciting.”

“No possessions? Demonic activity?”

“I don't think so. I haven't really been following patterns, these last couple of weeks. You want me to call Bobby, see what he's got?”

“Nah, don't bother Bobby,” Dean said. “If you don't think it's there, I believe you. Hell's been quiet the past few weeks, you think?”

“Yeah, it has,” Sam said, mind going back over it. After the Devil's Gate opened there had been a lot to follow up on; not everything panned out, demons moving on from host to host faster than Sam or Bobby could track them, but not the radio silence they'd had the last month or so. He wondered what they were waiting for, hoped it wasn't Dean.

He thought for a minute of Ruby, that hunt she'd tried to get him on. Hadn't she said it was nearby? They were days out of Michigan now, maybe he should tell Bobby, find out if it was still active. He wondered why she hadn't been back around to nag at him about it; she liked to think he was on a tight leash, and he would have expected to see her again already.

“Maybe we don't need to go look at those other things right away,” Dean said.

“No, I don't think we do,” Sam said. He stared down at his journal. “I'm gonna go back to sleep for a bit. Wake me up for lunch.”

He bunched his jacket up between the side of the seat and the window and rested his head against it, his body falling naturally into the familiar contortions that would let him get some almost comfortable rest in the confines of the car.

He dreamed of a flock of black birds, winging their way slowly across a clear blue sky. There was a desert underneath them – he realised, in the dream, he was one of the birds – he could see a solitary figure, lying tiny on the scrub, with a campfire burning out next to it.

He heard Catherine of Winchester saying 'you must try the land', and then he was no longer a bird and he was dropping out of the sky and curling up and the desert waited to meet him and Dean was the dead figure and he was opening his eyes and watching Sam fall.

“Sam? Sam. Wake up. Sam.” For a second he thought he was shaking, remembering the dream, and then he realised Dean was shaking him, impatiently.

“What?” he said, brushing Dean's hands off him. A full-body shiver went through him. His feet had gone to sleep. He reached down and pressed against them. The book had fallen down to the footwell; he retrieved it and sat back up, fumbling for his balled-up jacket and pulling it around himself. The sun had gone in while he was asleep and there was a chill in the air.

“You said to wake you up for lunch,” Dean said.

“It's time for lunch already?” Sam said. He felt muzzy, but it seemed like he'd barely shut his eyes.

“Yeah, sleeping beauty, you've been asleep nearly three hours,” Dean said. He watched Sam for a moment. “Are you okay? Good dream? You're kind of red.”

Sam batted away his hand when it threatened to reach over and feel his forehead for a temperature.

“I'm fine,” he said. He peered out of the window. It looked like they were in the middle of nowhere, lush green fields stretching out beside the road in both directions. “Where are we? Where's the diner?”

“We just crossed the border into Colorado, and I found something better than a diner,” Dean said smugly.

“A topless diner?” Sam hazarded.

Dean grinned. “No. That'd be pretty cool, though. Maybe tomorrow.” He got out the car and Sam opened his own door and followed, stamping his feet a couple of times and wincing as pins and needles ran through them. He looked up for what had Dean so excited.

It was a stall, just a long trestle table manned by two teenagers, one bored-looking, tapping doggedly at a cell phone, and the other bent industriously over several open books. They were sitting behind piles of produce and Sam was instantly hungry looking at it: bread that even from a distance smelled warm and fresh, hothouse tomatoes, small windfall apples. A generator was humming under the table, powering a glass-doored refrigerator containing milk, expertly-wrapped cheese and butter, packets of sausages and a whole side of ham.

He looked at Dean across the roof of the car, catching him watching Sam's reaction with a soft smile that went sarcastic as he noticed Sam noticing. “What? I eat vegetables sometimes,” Dean called across the car.

They went over. The boy looked up at them from his phone and nudged the girl; she was obviously the older, maybe sixteen. She smiled at them and nodded encouragingly at the boy.

“Hi how can we help you!” he said in a rush.

“Hey there,” Dean said. He and Sam had both put on their talking-to-the-witnesses smiles out of habit. “This looks like a pretty sweet operation. All fresh?”

“Yeah,” the girl said. “We have a farm. Everything you see is hand-grown or was hand-reared to the highest organic standards, producing nutritious food that tastes just the way nature intended.” She had the air of an actress reciting lines for the millionth time, bored but with a conviction borne of repetition.

“Well, isn't that just great,” Dean said. Sam saw the girl's eyes narrow, like she wasn't sure if he was making fun, but Dean was gazing at the table with a broad smile and the girl relaxed.

“Organic, huh,” Sam said.

“Yeah. Our mom says it's the future,” the girl said candidly. “Most of the farm is just, y'know, normal, but this stuff is hers. She churns the butter and cheese herself, the herd is hand-milked, and she practically raises the pigs on the bottle.” The boy was fumbling around on the table behind the bread, then he shyly passed Sam a leaflet. “Mawdsley Organics,” he read. There was a picture of a cow, smiling, and a website address.

“Yeah,” she said. “You guys want the produce or sandwiches? I can make you cheese, ham and tomato.”

“Sandwiches,” Dean said. “Two each, please. And a couple bottles of that milk.”

“Sure, help yourselves,” she said, getting up and gathering what she needed for the sandwiches, dragging a chopping board and knife from under her books.

Her brother watched them avidly for a minute and then blurted out, “I love your car!”

“Thanks,” Dean said, grinning at him. “You like the classics, huh?” The kid shrugged and smiled; apparently that was about it for his powers of speech. Sam watched them fondly.

The sandwiches were the best thing Sam had eaten in miles, sharp cheese and sweet tomatoes delicious on his tongue, and the milk full and creamy. He thought idly he'd have to remember them for Catherine, if he wanted to call her again. They ate perched on the hood of the Impala; the sun had come back out. It was a good meal.

When they were done, Dean jogged back over the the stall. He said something to the girl as he paid her, making her smile and blush; she bagged up some more bread and cheese and handed it to him. Sam waved to them as they pulled away – they'd fed him and otherwise left him alone, it was the most goodwill he'd felt towards strangers in months – and the boy waved back.

“I was thinking,” Sam started.

“That's a bad sign,” Dean said. “I'm thinking about those sandwiches. Man, they were good. Weren't they good?”

“Yes, they were great sandwiches, Dean,” Sam said. “But I've been thinking about hunting.”

“Okay,” Dean said neutrally.

“I was thinking, maybe we don't have to hunt any more. For. You know. Until.” He knew he sounded awkward, but he couldn't bear to say until you die, and he couldn't skirt around it the way Dean did, 'when I go away' or 'after I'm not here'.

“If you don't want to...”

“I'm not saying that,” Sam said quickly. “If you want to, we will. I don't mind. I just wanted to say, if you don't want to, that's okay. I just don't think you have to feel like you should. It's okay if you want to. But it's okay if you want to take it off, as well.”

“Okay,” Dean said. Sam couldn't read his expression, wished for a second they had stopped at a diner and he could have had this conversation looking right into Dean's face. “If something comes up, we can do it. But I guess we don't have to go looking.”

“Right, okay,” Sam said, “that's good. If it comes up.”

“What I did on my holidays by Sammy Winchester, aged twenty-four,” Dean said. “There anything you want to do? I don't know when we last took time off.”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam said. “I want to go to the Grand Canyon.”

Dean laughed. “Sam, you remembered! That's sweet. Okay, Grand Canyon it is. Won't take long, from here.”

“I know,” Sam said, his sandwiches weighing a little heavier. He had remembered; he always did memorise those infrequent times when Dean gave up parts of himself, and it felt wrong that he was using one of his brother's personal wants now. But it was to save him, anything was all right if it was to save him. He'd decided that a long time ago.

* * *

They took a couple of days to get to the Grand Canyon. Then they packed clean underwear, plenty of water and powerbars, and a blanket each; Dean was determined to sleep in the valley, permit or no permit. Sam surreptitiously stuffed The Life of Jonathan Strange, the silver bowl and his notebook into his rucksack, tied his hair back with a bandanna (causing a brief scuffle as Dean refused to be seen with him) and followed Dean through the park, heading to the rim. They were quiet; they were fit, but cross-country hiking took stamina and attention, and Sam thought perhaps Dean was caught by the atmosphere and size of the park.

He hadn't mentioned it to Dean but he'd been to the Canyon before, a spring roadtrip from Stanford with his room-mate in his sophomore year. So he felt only a little guilty about ignoring the natural wonders surrounding him in favour of planning to summon the unnatural.

For this try, at least, he thought he'd keep it simple, see if the power she'd talked about was any good for this; there was no point wasting his time if there was any chance that might work. He thought the best plan of action was to repeat the spell he'd used with Catherine, but since he didn't need this to be in a dream he figured he could forget the herbs and just use some of his blood... or perhaps he shouldn't do that. Winchester blood wasn't going to mean anything to a fairy and he didn't know what other significance spilling blood might have to them. He didn't want to summon a fairy and find he'd accidentally bound himself to its service rather than the other way around or something.

And he probably didn't need the gift, either. Did fairies eat? He didn't know. Certainly he didn't know that their experience of taste was the same as his. It might even be some sort of insult. He just didn't know enough, and no way of finding out. Catherine of Winchester had evidently said all she cared to on the subject, he couldn't ask her for information she'd clearly thought he shouldn't have, not when she might have influence with the fairies still, to warn them away from him. It might even be some sort of test – how had someone proved themselves worthy of the study of magic, in her time? He thought of all the books Segundus referred to so casually, the books that had been cavalierly wiped out on one man's decision. How hadn't that magician known what he was doing, the things he was taking away from the world? What had given him the right?

He let himself luxuriate in the anger at that long-dead magician, let it sweep over him, familiar and soothing.

“Dude, what?” Dean said in consternation. He stopped, looking back, and grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him around face-to-face, ducking under the curtain of Sam's bangs to look into his eyes.

“What?” Sam snapped, then became aware his face was twisted in a ferocious scowl. He tried to smile.

“You look scary,” Dean said definitively. “You getting sunstroke on me? You want to go back to the car?”

“No,” Sam said. He concentrated on smoothing out his forehead and bringing his shoulders down from around his ears. “I just. I think maybe I've got something in my shoe. Hang on a sec.”

He sat on the ground and took his boot off, shaking it out, then put it back on and tied the laces back up, slowly, trying to get a grip. He could feel Dean hovering over him anxiously, but when he hauled himself back up again Dean was a casual distance away, expression blank. He handed Sam an open bottle of water without comment. Sam drank deeply then poured a little of the water over his hands and wrists, trying to refresh himself. He nodded to Dean without meeting the gaze resting heavy on him and trudged on. After a minute he heard Dean start to follow.

He had to get away tonight to do the summoning; the fairy might be able to identify the deal on Dean, as Catherine had. Sam hated it, that things looked at his brother and just saw that, a man who'd dealt with a demon from stupidity or greed, without bothering to understand why or what it had cost. He had to be protected from the fairy until Sam was sure it would help them.

He deliberately didn't think about who would protect him. He would have to protect himself. Especially here, where there were so many more hazards; he wasn't going to survive a fairy and then trip over a rock and break his neck. For a second it crossed his mind, what would happen to Dean if this meeting went badly. Himself God knew where and Dean in hell anyway – no. That wasn't going to happen; Sam wasn't going to allow that to happen.

They reached the rim in early afternoon. They were both sweating and limp, having walked through the hottest part of the day. Sam flopped onto the ground, casting a cursory glance at the other tourists scattered near the rim, and watched Dean approach. He felt an instinctive terror for a second, vision of his brother teetering on the edge skating through his head, but ignored it.

Dean looked into the Canyon for a long time, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his pack lying at his feet. The line of his shoulders was stiffened but natural, like parade rest. Sam didn't allow himself to wonder what Dean was thinking; somehow it seemed disrespectful to do so.

Sam had fallen into a light doze by the time Dean came back to him, sitting down with a groan. Sam offered him a bottle of water and their food supply. Dean picked jerky and a couple of powerbars, eating slowly. He looked contemplative.

“Big,” he said eventually.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

* * *

It was a warm enough night that they didn't have to bother building a fire that might have got them caught. They didn't talk much as they ate more powerbars and soggy squashed sandwiches, exhausted from the hike down from the rim to the floor. Sam lay on his back and watched the sky drowsily. On the road, he was used to nights in places with little light pollution, but from the Grand Canyon the night sky looked even bigger, spread out black and lush.

Dean pulled out their blankets when the night air started to chill. They didn't bother losing any clothes, just loosened their boots enough to be able to sleep in and found the smoothest patch of ground they could, behind some brush that would serve as part-cover. Then they wrapped up in the worn comfortable blankets, laying out spare shirts for pillows and shuffling back-to-back to keep warm.

Sam waited a few minutes, making small movements like he was getting comfortable, before regulating his breathing into a steady sleep pattern. In a new, difficult environment like this Dean would wait until he was sure Sam was okay and sleeping before letting himself drop off.

Sure enough, as Sam kept his breathing slow and regular Dean's evened out to match it. He waited a couple of minutes and then stealthily kicked off his blanket, letting the cool air keep him awake while Dean's sleep deepened, a warm bulwark of connection along his back.

When he thought about half an hour had passed, he crawled away from Dean in small increments, keeping the sound of his breaths as close to those of sleep as he could. Dean grumbled and curled up on himself tighter. Eventually Sam thought it was safe to get up. He brushed himself off and covered Dean with his own blanket.

He was happy to find that on the flat, open valley floor he could move some distance away and be out of earshot but still keep their sleeping spot visible, even sort of make out the lump that was Dean. He turned away, keeping him in the corner of his eye, but hopefully not so obviously that he would draw the fairy's attention. He supposed he could move further away, but he preferred keeping Dean in his eyeline, especially when he was asleep and vulnerable.

He sat on the ground and took deep breaths. He'd done some meditation during college, even taken a couple of classes in it; Jess had liked to do it after yoga and encouraged him to share it with her. He tried to reach that level, quiet place he remembered. It was hard: he hadn't found any peace within himself for so long. He didn't have a hope of banishing the anger and fear that seemed to underlie everything he did these days, but he did his best to put them away from himself, acknowledging the feelings without falling into them.

When he felt ready, he thought about the ground where he sat, feeling his contact with it all along his legs and hands, trying to feel the millennia it had taken to carve it out, the history the rocky walls around him had borne silent witness to; he thought about America, the land and people of her, the lively veins of road networks he knew so well, the tired smiling waitresses in a million diners, blonde coeds on a California beech, the crisp winter they'd spent in New England, the skyscrapers he'd admired on a trip to New York, Dean smiling in the front seat of the Impala, cock rock spilling from the tape deck, and then he pushed it all back into the ground and reached inside himself and found the power there waiting to answer, coming from the ground around him, surging blue into his blood and mind–

He said the words that would bring the fairy-spirit to him and he opened his eyes.

He was alone.

He staggered up, looking wildly about him, blue still crackling in the edges of his vision. He turned around, and then again. Nobody was there. But surely... he'd felt the power, his power; he'd felt the demand go out. Surely it had been answered. He'd been so certain, for one blinding moment, that it had been answered.

“Hello?” he called, feeling stupid. He'd be able to see if it had worked. There was nobody around.

He felt shaky and weak, and sat down again sharply. It helped a little with the dizziness, but not the growing confusion and odd feeling of betrayal. It hadn't worked.

Okay. He had to think about this. He'd thought it might not work, hadn't he said to himself, simple version now in case he had to change it around. This was a setback, not an end. But he'd just... it had felt right, the way Catherine had said it should, the way he imagined English magic must have been for her, what she'd called the fundamental connection. He'd asked his land for power and he'd been given it. He didn't know what else to do.

He got up, joints aching, and moved back towards Dean, still wobbly on his feet like a foal heading back to mama. Dean hadn't shifted. Sam looked down at him and thought how sorry he was, involuntarily, how terribly he was going to miss his brother once he was gone, how much he loved him, and he felt the blue power spark in him again, covering the physical stab that was the thought of Dean's death. Sam pulled his blanket off Dean and lay down, fitting himself to Dean's back again. He shut his eyes, feeling about a million years old, and concentrated on Dean's slow breathing. He had time. He could think about it in the morning.

A sudden breeze flipped his blanket off him. He tugged it back over himself and slept.

* * *

He woke up a couple of minutes before sunrise, every part of his body feeling leaden and wiped. Dean was still asleep, on his stomach with his face mashed into the shirts, facing away from Sam. Sam could feel the light pressure of a couple of fingers resting on his hip, Dean checking for him. He briefly wondered what time the park authorities started patrolling for illicit campers, but he couldn't ignore his body's need. He sank back into the welcoming ground and went back to sleep.

When he woke up again it was after eleven in the morning. He started awake, groping for a weapon under the motel pillow, and was surprised to find himself on the ground. His mind cleared quickly and he looked around, for Dean and whatever had woken him.

There wasn't anything, but Dean was there. The sun was shining brightly and Dean had his shirt off and sunglasses on, lying on his back like he was waiting for female hikers to come along.

“You shouldn't be doing that,” Sam said loudly. His voice sounded gritty and his throat felt like he'd been breathing in sand all night. “You should be keeping cool for the hike back up.”

Dean got up and came over to him, bringing a bottle of lukewarm water. “I'm fine, I'm a machine. You okay? This outdoor sleeping thing agrees with you, you've been out for hours.”

“You should've woken me,” Sam said. He took a swig of the water.

Dean shrugged. “We don't have anywhere to be. I was watching out for rangers.”

Sam nodded and lay back. He knew Dean was right, he'd been asleep a long time, even allowing for the time he'd spent trying the summoning, but he still felt weary to his toes and the ground seemed happy to support him.

“You're not going back to sleep,” Dean said in disbelief, “come on, up.”

Sam groaned but obeyed, managing to sit up.

“Didn't you sleep well?” Dean said, eyeing him.

“I slept fine,” Sam said evasively. “You?”

Dean squinted into the distance behind his sunglasses; Sam could see his forehead resolve into the telltale lines. “Not bad, I guess. I had weird dreams.”

“Weird how?” Sam said apprehensively. If his spell had got out of his control, if Dean had been affected somehow –

“I don't know, sort of Audrey 2,” Dean said vaguely. “I think it was the nature smells.”

Sam relaxed. That seemed a pretty normal level of weird. “Maybe it was trying to tell you you need a hothouse environment,” he suggested. “You're too delicate to rough it like this.”

“I'm rugged and manly,” Dean said. “You're the one who has to have a blow-dryer on him at all times.”

The banter put some life into Sam, and in short order he was put together and ready to start the hike back up to the rim. They took it at a leisurely pace, although after a late lunch of the last, stalest powerbars, a couple of wrinkled apples and body-temperature water they hurried a little at the thought of the proper food to be had in the park.

Sam determinedly didn't think about his failure with the fairy summoning. He'd done it the basic way and it hadn't worked; for any more complicated version he needed books, although he knew was going to have to settle for the internet, new resources. He was glad for the physical slog that was climbing up the canyon, although his body still felt heavy and laboured. Dean had stopped all conversation and was pinking up along the back of the neck; Sam reached over to fix his collar so it shielded the parts that seemed reddest, and as his hands brushed Dean's neck he suddenly felt calm, and was able to put on a burst of energy that got him to the top.

Once that was done, it seemed comparatively easy to cross the park back to the car. Dean fell on it with a grateful stifled sigh, although he looked displeased when he noted a very fine layer of dust covered it. Sam just collapsed into the passenger seat and rested his head back against the seat, enjoying its coolness against his skin. His eyes felt too big for their sockets and a headache threatened.

He followed Dean into a restaurant through a filmy daze, couldn't say what he ordered and ate, and didn't have a clue where they ended up for the night, functioning on creaky autopilot. He was all ready to mumble 'headache' if Dean said anything but although he stuck close to Sam he seemed occupied with his own thoughts.

They got to the motel at about nine in the evening. Sam barely heard Dean complaining about rip-off tourist traps, just clunked himself into the room, pancaked onto the bed, and stayed there for fourteen hours.

* * *

“Oh my God, it's alive,” Dean greeted him, crabbily, as soon as he opened his eyes the next morning. “What is with you lately? I'm thinking we need to reinstitute afternoon naptime.”

“We did a lot of hiking,” Sam said defensively. He actually felt good, energised and clean, and he slid out of bed and went straight for the bathroom. He yelled, “What do you want to do today?” through the door as he shaved.

“I don't know,” Dean said. “We can hang around here if you want. See the sights.”

“You hate tourist places,” Sam pointed out. He hunted around the bathroom. Dean had left all the towels damp.

“But I like tourists,” Dean said. “Girls in those hiking shorts...”

Sam picked the conversation up again as he came out after his shower, rifling through his bag for clean clothes. “Did you eat yet?”

“Eat what, powerbar crumbs? We're going out. And we should probably hit a Wal-Mart or something in the next couple of days, restock.”

“Okay,” Sam said agreeably. “Ready to go? I'm starving.”

He was, and proved it by eating a mushroom omelette, several sausages, a fried tomato, three rashers of bacon, five rounds of toast smothered in butter and strawberry jelly, and finishing off with a heaped bowl of cereal and plenty of hot coffee. Dean stared at him over his own coffee, his plate finished and pushed neatly to the side minutes before.

“What?” Sam said. “I said I was hungry.”

“Dude, you better not be having another growth spurt,” Dean said. Something caught his eye and he got up, keeping his coffee. “Wait here. Try not to explode.”

Sam sat back with a satisfied sigh, then sneaked his head around to see what Dean was doing. He'd seen a couple of women, dressed for hiking with packs at their feet, and he was chatting to them, laying it on with the smiles and casual touches. He said something about Sam, gesturing over at him; he grinned when he saw Sam already watching them and waved him over. Sam rolled his eyes and went.

“And this is my brother Sam,” Dean was saying when Sam reached them. “This is Bridget and Dee,” he said to Sam, indicating the girl on the left, a short and shapely brunette, and then her friend, willowy with very short ash-blonde hair. “They've come over from Ireland – you did say Ireland, right? - specially to see the Canyon.”

“Hi,” Sam said, shaking hands with both women. “How are you finding it so far?”

“Breath-taking,” Dee said, her voice lightly accented and melodic. “I mean, we'd seen pictures, but to actually stand on the rim and look into it was unbelievable.”

“So we're going back to do it again today,” Bridget said cheerfully. “Have you been out yet?”

“Yeah, we did the rim to the floor and back trip,” Dean said. He looked at Sam, should I mention we slept down there, and Sam flicked his eyes back at him, no.

“Oh, we'd like to do that,” Bridget said. “Being down at the bottom looking up along the sides, that must be spectacular. Did you go with an organised tour?”

“No,” Dean said, giving a chuckle that was probably meant to express his and Sam's hardiness and manly go-it-alone natures. “Just made our way down. You know, doing it like that, just you and the Canyon, it really makes you aware of what's really important.” He sounded like he was putting out a line, but as he spoke he slanted a look at Sam, so fast Sam almost missed it.

Dee gave a throaty laugh. “Very brave.”

“Would you like to join us today?” Bridget said, bestowing a sweet smile on Dean.

“Sorry, can't,” Dean said before Sam could accept for them, assuming that was the invitation Dean had been angling for. “We've got a few things we need to take care of today. But maybe we'll see you tonight? We could grab dinner here?”

The girls looked at each other for a moment and then Dee shrugged slightly and Bridget turned back to Dean to agree, getting out her cell to exchange numbers. They said their goodbyes and left, heads bent and talking together.

“Okay, turning down the chance to spend the day with hot girls?” Sam said sceptically, turning to look at Dean.

“Well, you know,” Dean said. “We got stuff to do, right?”

“If you say so,” Sam said.

They wandered round Grand Canyon Village for a few hours. There were a couple of bookshops; Sam didn't have much hope of finding anything useful in them and sure enough they offered little besides guidebooks and texts on geology, history and geography, but he liked being in bookshops and he drifted around in them for a few minutes anyway while Dean checked out their meagre shelves of second-hand CDs. They looked at the old buildings in the village, some housing museums and exhibitions, but Dean didn't express any interest in going in any of them so Sam didn't know exactly why he'd turned down the hot girl option. He didn't bother asking again, just meandered around after Dean, enjoying his biting, murmured commentary on the scenery and other tourists exploring the site.

He didn't get a proper chance to sit down and think until the late afternoon, when they found an open liquor store. Dean bought a litre of Coke and a bottle of Jack, then proceeded to drain a good third of the Coke, belch heartily, look pleased with himself, and fill up the bottle with Jack, gingerly giving it a couple of shakes to mix in the whisky. Then he led Sam back to the park, and they sat side-by-side just beyond the boundaries, sharing the bottle between them.

Soon enough Dean lay down to doze and Sam could finally lie next to him and consider his next move. He'd been right: something had worked. It wasn't normal for him to sleep so much, or be so hungry that even Dean commented on the amount he was eating. He could only conclude that he'd managed to access his power, and somehow given too much of himself in the process; neither The Life of Jonathan Strange nor Catherine of Winchester had mentioned magic depleting the magician so badly.

So, he'd found the power he supposedly had, but it hadn't been enough to summon a fairy – although Catherine had definitely said it should have been. Or had she only implied it? His journal was back in their room; he'd have to check that. The spell had been basic and workmanlike, he'd already known that, and fairies could be sticklers for etiquette and rank; traditionally they formed themselves into regal courts, after all. Maybe he'd offended the fairy, in which case maybe he should abandon the idea of summoning Catherine's own fairy-servant and focus on a general call that could be answered by any fairy in the vicinity. But would the sort of fairy who'd answer something like that be any use for him to deal with? He should probably persist with Jackie Blackstone, at least it was a known quantity.

Or maybe there was another reason, to do with fairies themselves, and not anything he'd done or hadn't done. Fairy magic hadn't seemed to be a big thing for Jonathan Strange. Possibly by the time English magic withered there hadn't been any use of fairies in magic at all, and the connections between the earth and Faerie had broken. Or there were connections still between England and Faerie, but the American magic had been too unfamiliar to them.

There were too many variables. On the whole, Sam thought he preferred the explanation that he'd done something offensive in using such a crude spell. At least then he could fix it, add some politenesses and flourishes; on the other explanations there wasn't much he could do.

“Hello, lads!” He was surprised when Bridget dropped down next to them, Dee following her a sedate couple of steps behind. “Fancy meeting you here.” She reached down and gave Dean a playful smack to wake him; Sam foresaw unpleasant consequences and swiftly put his own arm in Dean's way to subdue the instinctive defensive reaction.

“What!” Dean yelped, startled and disoriented. “Sam? Oh. Hi.” He sat up and gave Bridget a smile that would have been smouldering, if he'd been a little more awake.

She didn't seem to mind. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Dean said again. He still looked mussed, and rubbed at his eyes.

“Can I have some of your Coke?” Bridget said, grabbing it without waiting to hear an answer. “We ran out of water nearly an hour ago, stupid mistake I know but the snacks we packed were dryer than we expected, we were just pouring it down for ages.” She opened it and took a healthy swig before either Sam or Dean could intervene.

“It's not just Coke,” Dean mumbled.

“Mm, yes, I can tell that,” she said, favouring them with a naughty grin. “Dee! Dee, have something to drink.”

Dee sat beside them and took a drink, then shared a smile with Sam.

“It's a pick-me-up?” Sam tried.

“Oh, I'm sure,” she said. “Good for what ails you.”

“Okay,” Dean said hastily. “You ladies hungry? You need to go back to your motel before you eat?”

“I think we'd like to eat as soon as possible,” Dee said. “All this fresh air.”

“Great,” Dean said, getting up and offering Bridget a hand up and then his arm. She took it and they headed back towards the Impala. Sam gave Dee a hand up but didn't try the arm thing since he was pretty sure it'd make him look and feel stupid, instead busying himself with picking up the bottle and making sure they hadn't left any rubbish. A part of him was irritated that he was evidently stuck in company for the night; he needed that spell sorted out yesterday. But he suspected that if he tried to pull a headache on Dean now, combined with how much he'd slept last night, he'd be in for worry and more piercing attention than he needed right now, if Dean was even inclined to spend the evening apart anyway. And he couldn't say he just wasn't interested without problems. Dean had obviously gone for a twosome finding himself a girl that morning, picking one for himself with a friend he'd thought Sam would like, one of his ways of showing concern. Dean's girls were never allowed to come before Sam.

It wasn't too bad. Bridget was lively and slyly witty under her good nature, complementing Dee's dryer humour, and they both chatted casually about their homes and careers in Ireland, other places they'd been, current affairs (a portion of the conversation Dean left mostly to Sam), and then asked intelligent questions about roadtripping through America (a discussion Sam left mostly to Dean).

It was a late-night diner, the same one they'd been in that morning, and nobody mentioned moving to a bar. Sam nursed his beer and as the night wore on started dropping out of the conversation more and more, distracted by running thoughts about fairies in the back of his mind.

At about eleven Dee said she was tired, shooting a significant girl look at Bridget. “Oh, well,” Bridget said, and shot Dean a come-hither glance straight out of a forties black-and-white from under her eyelashes.

Dean looked at Sam hopefully.

“I can see Dee back to the motel,” Sam said readily. Dee and Bridget both nodded assent to the plan and Dean threw the keys over in a smooth arc that spoke to Sam of gratitude.

“I'll see you later,” Sam said softly to Dean as the girls said their goodbyes. He raised his voice a little and said, “It was nice to meet you, safe journey back,” to Bridget. Dean had made it pretty clear over the course of the evening that they'd only been for a short side trip and would be leaving the Grand Canyon the next day. Sam had gone through a phase – when he first got to college and had to remember bad things about his family every minute to stop himself from calling – of disgust at how Dean treated women. A girl in every port, he'd thought, it was disrespectful and unfeeling and wrong. But he'd admitted, after a few months of watching a couple of the horndogs in his dorms, Dean might lie about his job and his life and even his name, but he was only ever upfront about the fact that he wasn't going to be there when they woke up.

He opened and shut Dee's door for her, partly because he'd started to think about something else again and almost got into the passenger side himself, and climbed into the driver's seat. He'd have to hunch a bit to use the pedals and see the rear view mirror, but for such a short drive it wasn't worth putting up with Dean's whining when he had to move them back.

He tried to think of small talk they hadn't already covered and couldn't. His conversational skills had atrophied in the past year. Either he was talking to Dean and couldn't say half the things he was thinking about the deal or he was talking to someone about those things and couldn't spare the time for mentioning anything else.

“Sorry, where did you say you were from in Ireland?” he said, aware it was a little abrupt.

“In Sligo,” she said. “Nice area. A bit quiet for my tastes now, but it was a good place to grow up.”

“Pretty traditional, then,” Sam said. “You grow up near your family?”

“Yeah. One of my nannas was near, she used to look after me and my brothers after school. And two of my aunts were still nearby, with my cousins. What about you?”

“We didn't live near any family,” Sam said. “So, hey, you ever hear stories about fairies, growing up?”

He was instantly aware it was far too clumsy.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. Her accent suddenly thickened, exaggerated. “Faith and begorrah, sure the leprechauns were practically next-door neighbours.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I'm interested in cultures and mythology, it's sort of a hobby, I bore everyone with it. I didn't mean to offend you.”

She seemed to warm again. “No, sorry. You seem bright enough, I should've given you the benefit of the doubt. Heard one too many 'Lucky Charms' jokes lately.”

“Hey, I used to love Lucky Charms,” Sam said, trying to defuse the tension.

She laughed. “Yeah, so did I. I suppose my nan told us some stories, yeah. When we were naughty she said the gentry would come and take us away and leave her good little fairy boys and girls instead, and we said that was fine with us 'cause the fairies loved feasting, fighting and fucking.” She shot him a flirty grin. “My nan didn't say that part but we got the point when we were older. When there were parties in the area the old ladies joked that we had to put out glasses of milk and honey for the gentry to have their share, or they'd sing and dance away with the best looking girl and boy there.”

“There's something to be afraid of,” Sam said. He wished he hadn't asked. She obviously only knew the standard lore he did, and now he was stuck in conversation.

“Yeah,” she said. “My nan wasn't really superstitious. She had her own business, she was a dress-maker. She told us stuff when we were little, but later she said whoever made up the fairy tales wasn't pricking his finger every day.”

“She sounds pretty cool.”

“She is. She told me to take a lot of photos for her of the Grand Canyon. I think she would have liked to travel to America, but she never got the opportunity.”

“That's a shame,” Sam said.

“Yeah. You want to hear one of her old stories?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam said.

“Okay. It probably won't be pretty, I was never great at drama and it's been a while since I tried to remember this stuff.” She thought for a minute. “Okay. This is the story of the Countess Kathleen O'Shea. She lived a long, long time ago, and she was an, um, an angel of beauty in her city. And one day there came to her city two rich merchants, and they got a room and sat around all day counting their money, and everyone heard about how rich they were and came to ask for their charity. But it turned out they got their money by trading souls to the devil. Old people weren't worth very much and the best soul was a young pure woman.

“When the Countess Kathleen heard about it, she told her servant to sell all her stuff, apart from her house, and then she gave the money to the poor people so they didn't have to sell their souls any more and they could love God again. But the devil wasn't happy about that, so he arranged for all her money to be stolen and then the poor people went back to selling their souls. So Kathleen went to the merchants and offered them her soul, and she was so beautiful and merciful it was worth a lot of gold. So she signed the deal to give up her soul and gave the money to the poor to feed themselves until this shipment of alms arrived. Then she shut herself up in her room, and after three days they opened it and she'd died from grief. But since she was so noble and good and everything, God declared her contract void, because she'd only sold her soul to help other people. The merchants disappeared from the city, and it's said that the devil put them in prison until they can give him Kathleen's soul from heaven.”

“That's a good story,” Sam said, his voice thick. He made an effort to try and relax his fingers, which were white around the wheel.

“You think so?” she said, a little self-consciously.

“Really,” he said. “I hadn't heard it before. You told it well.”

She seemed pleased with that. With an effort he started up a conversation about what she and Bridget were planning to do the next day, and that filled the last few minutes until they got to her hotel. He said his goodbyes politely, trying to convey just enough coldness for her not to linger. He watched until she was in the door, then drove back to his own motel room, trying hard not to think about anything.

When he got there he changed quickly and got into bed with his notebook, but he didn't bother writing down anything he'd thought that day. Dee's story was just a story; there was no kindly God who was going to declare Dean's deal void because he'd struck it out of love for Sam. But if hearing a new story had told him anything, it was the sheer volume of material and lore on fairies he still didn't know and had no hope of covering in the next few days. He didn't have time to work out precisely who Jackie Blackstone was, or what would attract him.

Dean would be in hell in twelve days.

He got out of bed again and went over to the window, pretending to himself that he wasn't looking for Dean. He'd probably be at least a couple of hours, and Sam honestly didn't begrudge it. He was just unsettled, wanting his brother there. He looked at the Impala, lying low and sleek in the dim parking lot lamps.

He didn't know what things Jackie Blackstone liked; fairies' individual tastes were too specific. But he knew something that was inimical to them all.

* * *

Sam didn't hear Dean come in but he was there when Sam woke up, asleep in the other bed. Sam threw on some clothes and went out for coffee and breakfast.

Dean was up when he returned, watching cartoons. “Hi,” he greeted Sam, accepting his coffee with a nod and a look of pleasure. “We moving on today?”

“Sure you don't want to stick around with Bridget for a couple more days?” Sam teased.

“Ah, beautiful Bridget,” Dean said with a fond reminiscing smile, “what a woman. But she and her friend have plans for the rest of their vacation, anyways.”

They hit the road an hour later, heading back towards the heartland. Dean pulled into a town mid-afternoon and they grabbed burgers and then found their way to the nearest superstore.

Dean got a cart and set about the store with roughly the same attitude he faced a hunt, only with more fear. He considered Wal-Mart shoppers some of the most vicious creatures he encountered and had once spent several bored car-hours elaborating a theory regarding the probably demonic makeup of its board of directors.

“Do we really need this much stuff?” Sam said, gaping as Dean produced a long list from his pocket.

“There's nothing wrong with being organised, Sam,” Dean said sniffily, “I did inventory last week, we're running short on a lot.” He looked at his list and mumbled unhappily, “And I don't want you to have to think about this stuff for a while.”

Sam felt like he'd stepped onto normal pavement and found it was sinking sand. For a while it had been like the only way he'd processed Dean's deal was through fighting with him over it, trying to force Dean into a reaction. Since they'd stopped doing that it had still been an ever-present ache, but they'd been living so normally, not mentioning it; he'd been able to let it fade a little into another thorny supernatural problem. He had to pull himself together. What the hell had he been thinking, taking yesterday off? He had to focus; he didn't have any time here. He'd try his new plan for the fairy tonight. But even as itchy to go on as he suddenly felt, that meant indulging Dean now.

“Okay,” he said, looking into their empty cart with deep fascination.

“Okay,” Dean echoed. “And then we need to hit up an ammo store some time. For if you decide, you know.”

“Right,” Sam said. “We'll do that.”

Between that conversation and Dean's dislike of Wal-Mart the shopping trip seemed to take several hours. Dean put his head down and strode grimly through the aisles, throwing in food, including plenty of non-perishables, bottled water, replacements for most of their first aid kit then replacements for most of Dean's car kit (much of which Sam could now identify). Then they went to the clothes department, picking up socks, underwear, and what shirts Dean could find that would fit Sam. Sam almost complained he could pick his own clothes, but figured that whining would make him feel even more like a five-year-old than wearing what his brother picked out would.

“Okay,” Dean said, surveying their full cart, “anything else? Books, CDs, electronics?”

“No, I'm good,” Sam said. He wouldn't have minded checking out the media aisles but Dean was wearing a pinched, jostled look and Sam wanted to get him out of there and back on the road.

They loaded everything in the trunk, separating some of the food into the cooler in the back footwell. Dean let out a long breath when he slid back into the driver's seat, resting his head back.

“Want me to drive for a while?” Sam said, concerned. Dean didn't like shopping but it didn't usually wipe him out this much.

“No, I'm fine,” Dean said, his tone falsely bright. “We got some fresh stuff there, figured we'd just stop at the first motel with kitchenettes.”

“Fine with me,” Sam said.

It took a couple of hours to find one and it was already evening when they pulled in and bought a room. Sam lugged in their stuff and the shopping bags. Dean wordlessly took possession of the cooler and started messing in the kitchen area and Sam settled in with the new things and started putting them away.

Dean served up chicken with lemon, with a couple of baked potatoes slathered in butter each and a mound of carrots. Sam opened the beers and they ate leaning over their plates on Dean's bed, the news playing on low. They ate cheesecake for dessert.

After, they laid back, plates forgotten on the floor. Before Dean could fall into a nap Sam said, “You know, I think that maybe I am coming down with something.”

“What?” Dean sat up. “You seemed okay earlier. Dinner not agreeing with you?”

“I just don't feel so good,” Sam said pathetically. “It'd be nice to get into some fresh clothes to sleep. But I don't think I have any.”

Dean laughed and lay back. “Yeah, I stopped falling for that when you were six, Sam. Do your own laundry.”

“Please?” Sam said.

“Dude, I cooked for your ass! You should be doing my laundry.”

Sam sat in martyred silence. Finally he said, “I'll wash the car tomorrow.”

“And wax?” Dean bargained. Sam nodded reluctantly. “Then I guess I could do some laundry,” he went on magnanimously.

“Do my new stuff too,” Sam said.

“I'm not hearing the magic word...”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Wash the new stuff too, please.”

“Anything for you, Sammy,” Dean said blithely.

Sam had sorted their laundry while Dean was cooking, so had it ready for him with a pile of quarters. “They have wireless here too,” he added helpfully, “you want to take the laptop?”

Dean looked at him closely. “You trying to get rid of me or something?”

Shit. “No, I just want my laundry.” He knew he was flushing and tried to keep the dismay off his face. Clumsy, he'd been too obvious, but the urgency was back in him; he had to see that fairy tonight.

“You are!” Dean said gleefully. “I knew you didn't get anywhere with that girl last night.” He put on his paternal face. “You know, these feelings are perfectly normal. You only had to ask.”

“Dean!” Sam yelled, trying to make it horror rather than relief. “Shut up.”

“Nah, don't worry,” Dean said affectionately, “I'll leave you to Rosie and her daughters. I know you need all soft music and candelight to get in the mood.”

“Just go!” Sam said. He fell onto his back and pulled a pillow over his head dramatically.

Dean cackled and headed out. Just before the door shut behind him Sam heard him begin to belt out Barry White.

Okay. Sam pulled the pillow away and got up. This was actually good. Dean might not have much regard for Sam's privacy but he respected a man's need to jerk off occasionally. He'd probably give Sam an hour or two before coming back to check on him. Sam thought he'd be done by then, one way or another.

The Impala was parked outside their room, as usual, and Sam had checked that the laundry room was around the back, out of sight of it. He paused a moment to run his hand over the hood, taking the time to channel Dean's love for the car. A wash and wax was going to be the least he owed her tomorrow, if he pulled this off.

He got into the driver's side and locked the door. The Impala was good Detroit steel, which would help him access the magic, but more importantly he'd been there for Dean's discussions with Bobby when he was rebuilding the car, and he knew that parts of the frame were reinforced with pure cold iron. Dean had meant it to keep things out, themselves safe inside.

But cold iron was terror and pain to fairies, and as sure as it would keep them out, it would keep one in.

He took a deep breath, centring himself the way he had in the Grand Canyon. Then he reached for the magic, this time also trying to envision a thin wall between the blue energy and him in his mind's eye, protecting himself. The car helped him focus, American history in action, but the iron dampened him as well, he hadn't been expecting that. But the power still flowed enough, burning into him, and he said the words of the fairy summoning, same as before.

This time the results were instant; a figure was in the seat next to him. It immediately started to squeal and wave its arms about; Sam manhandled it over the bench into the back seat, in the middle, furthest away from the iron on all sides.

Then he spoke sharply. “You're Jackie Blackstone? Quit making that noise and answer me.” He instinctively threw some power behind it and the creature stopped snivelling and jerked upright.

“Yes, yes, that is I.” Its voice was cold and clear, almost bell-like, and it reminded Sam of the wind through piles of dead autumn leaves. It resembled an animal, although not one Sam had ever seen, with furious wide-set eyes, a sparsely furred face, and a snarling mouth. Its body was incongruously human, tall and graceful-looking, dressed roughly in a way Sam associated with the medieval period, presumably when it had last known Catherine of Winchester's England.

“I've summoned you for help,” Sam said.

“Yes, not here,” it said. “You do not realise, this place, the iron.”

“Oh, we're staying here,” Sam said grimly. “I've had too much trouble getting you here to let you out. I summoned you before, by name, and you didn't come.”

The fairy flinched. It was twitching anyway, tensed in a way that appeared painful, but Sam saw the tiny movement.

“Except you did come,” he realised. “You chose not to show yourself?”

“Yes, yes,” it said. It seemed to pull itself in somehow; the twitching stopped, though fine shivers still ran up and down its body, and it drew itself up, almost human. “Your summoning was ignorant and base, wild magician.”

“And successful,” Sam said coldly.

“I daresay anyone might have power,” it retorted. “You use it poorly.”

“Whatever,” Sam said. “I didn't get you here for your damn opinions, fairy.”

“Then ask for the help you require that I may grant it and leave,” it snapped. “No doubt your wants are foolish and vicious. They usually are, and may they so come back to you thrice.”

Sam looked at it properly. To his surprise it had changed, while it argued with him; it now looked human, otherworldly still but handsome, with piercingly green eyes. It had gathered dignity about it instead of the fae power battered and useless against the iron in the car. It still shivered constantly, but otherwise sat unnaturally poised and controlled.

“My brother made a deal with a demon to bring me back to life,” he said shortly. “He has eleven days left before he goes to hell for eternity.”

“And?” it said.

“I want to know what you can do to stop it,” Sam said, trying to hang onto his anger and harshness with the fairy, unwilling to let the inhuman thing see the anguish that crept in when he thought about the deal.

“He ought to have come to us from the beginning,” the fairy said. “But your race is sadly neglectful of what it owes to my kind, these two hundred years or more. I can do nothing to stop a deal with a demon.”

“Nothing?” Sam said. He was trying to hold his power inside him, contained and safe, but it bled out; the fairy jerked back as if Sam had hit it.

“I could perhaps bring him to my own lands,” it said reluctantly.

“Where are they?”

“Why, in Faery, of course. But he could not be reached out of my lands there as he can from this place.”

“No, but he'd be stuck in Faery,” Sam said in disbelief. “It's just another deal, isn't it. We wouldn't be any better off.”

The fairy raised a perfect languid eyebrow. “I assure you that he would be a great deal better off in my lands than he would be in Hell. Parties and entertainments every night. Regular battles and adventure. Excellent company, of course.”

“Could I come to your lands with him?” Sam asked.

“A magician will go where he pleases, of course,” the fairy said frostily. “You will understand if I neglect to make you welcome, once on my own territory.”

“Are you threatening me?” Sam said softly. He let his power bleed out again, deliberately, learning it more as it bent and moved in accordance with his desires.

“Not at all,” the fairy said. It held itself more rigidly, as if Sam's power was physically wounding.

“So he'd be gone,” Sam said frustratedly, slipping inexorably to the matter at hand. “Could he visit me here?”

“I think not,” the fairy said, with the air that it wasn't a subject that very much interested him. “If he returned to this realm his deal with the demon would again become relevant.”

“It 'would again become relevant'? What about when he dies?”

“Well, then he will go to Hell, as he agreed,” the fairy said, as if surprised. “Faery and Hell are different realms. An arrangement with me would supersede a deal with a demon, on my ground, but there is no power in Faery that will cancel it.”

“So he'd be in Faery alone his whole life and then he'd go to hell anyway,” Sam said bleakly.

“I understand that time passes very differently between our lands. A thousand of your years might pass as a matter of moments to him, and far longer before he is committed to Hell,” it said.

“That's not a recommendation,” Sam said.

“Then I cannot help you,” it said plainly. “I very much doubt anyone can.”

Sam felt absolutely blank.

“If that is all,” the fairy said pointedly.

“Yeah, go,” Sam said quietly. The atmosphere in the car changed instantly: the blue energy wrapped itself insistently back into Sam, nothing left for it to push against. He felt utterly drained, not the physiological exhaustion of the previous time, just unable to keep a thought in his head.

He hadn't realised how much he was relying on fairy assistance until it had informed him he couldn't have it. He'd been so wrong, about so many things.

It took him a long time to get himself up, out of the car and back to the room. He turned out the light. When Dean came in, whistling and smelling of their clean laundry, Sam pretended to be asleep.

* * *

Sam woke already wrapped in misery. He'd slept a long time, he realised, although not as long as he'd needed last time. He thought about going back to sleep but his mind was turning already to grief, choking his thoughts.

“That must have been some session,” Dean mocked gently, looking up from his bed where he was flicking through a car magazine. “I don't sleep that much after actual sex. I drank your coffee.”

“Mm,” Sam said.

“Hey, don't be like that, I'm sure it was epic. What is it they say? It's sex with someone you love?”

“That's what they say,” Sam said, trying to rally. He couldn't have Dean suspecting, couldn't have to admit he'd spent the last month on a wild goose chase and had nothing left.

“You're not really coming down with something?” Dean said, sounding genuinely concerned. “You don't look so good lately, Sam.”

“I'm fine, Dean,” Sam said. “I'm just gonna shower.” He swung his legs out of bed, deliberately to the side so his back was to Dean. He couldn't trust his expression not to give him away.

“Okay,” Dean said. Sam could feel his gaze boring into his shoulder-blades. “I'll get more coffee.”

What did Sam usually say in these conversations? He felt like his own shadow, indistinct and empty. “There's instant in my bag,” he tried.

“There's a diner with a really short skirt in its uniform practically next door,” Dean retorted. “Plus I don't think instant's going to cut it. Maybe they can set up an IV for you.”

Sam threw a jerky nod at him without turning around fully. If he looked at Dean he was going to punch him or fling himself into his lap and cry, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

He could barely look at himself in the mirror, and didn't want to repeat the experiment once he did. Dean was right. He was pale with dark smudges under his eyes, his hair was too long, and his eyes looked sad and tired. He had to snap out of this. Dean wouldn't tolerate being grieved for in front of his own eyes, and fighting with him now might break Sam into pieces he couldn't put back together.

He texted Dean 'nwsppr pls' and took his shower, thinking hard about the beat of the water on his back and how it felt good and nothing else.

He was dressed when Dean got back and he managed to look his brother in the eye and smile and thank him for the newspaper Dean passed over warily, thinking hard about the smell of newsprint and that Dean had a stain on his left cuff and nothing else.

Reading the newspaper and drinking the coffee actually helped. It was such a standard, from every version of a life he'd ever had, Dean and Dad to Jess to Dean. He managed to recap the funny or weird stories for Dean in a voice that didn't wobble – if he thought hard about what he was reading, and nothing else.

When he'd wrung every distraction he could from current affairs, he picked up the bag where he'd put aside the new stuff for the car without having to be reminded.

“You don't have to,” Dean volunteered when he saw what Sam was doing. “Car doesn't need doing right now, Sammy. You can take a rest, or something.”

“We haven't washed it since the Grand Canyon, it's still dusty,” Sam corrected mildly. “It's fine. I said I would.” He couldn't even stand to say 'we made a deal', Christ. There wasn't going to be anything left of him. There wasn't anything in his life that wasn't inextricably entwined with Dean's presence.

Washing the car actually helped for a while. He focused on every part of the car as he washed her in long methodical sweeps, wing hood wing rear door trunk roof, without having to see her as a whole. He concentrated on stretching himself out, the feeling of each tired muscle, the clean sweat coming to his skin.

When he started waxing Dean came out and picked up the wax too, wordlessly.

“It's okay,” Sam said, standing up with a sigh as his back popped and squinting just past Dean. When he spoke he realised his throat ached. “I'm enjoying it.” He could give Dean that reassurance, at least.

“You miss spots,” Dean said, shrugging.

They worked together in silence.

* * *

Sam was hunched over the body laid out cold and still. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears. He couldn't name the feeling clawing him down from the inside out. It went past grief, past devastation into a black place where he couldn't imagine ever having the energy the move away again. He could die here, over his brother, and it would be a kindness.

The body opened its eyes and was himself.

Sam woke up gasping. He was covered in clammy cold sweat and the bedsheets were wildly tangled around him. He dragged at them until he freed himself and stumbled into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and then drinking some straight from the tap. He sat down heavily on the toilet seat and stared blankly at the cracked shower wall.

Could that have been a true dream? Of course he'd known Dean had been in pieces at his own death, but it had seemed so abstract to him: he knew intellectually that he'd been dead but he'd avoided thinking too much about it; it hadn't felt like anything. If he was honest he'd also (when he wanted to think about it at all) assumed that the deal was as much about Dean's twisted, bone-deep sense of familial duty and obedience to that first stricture of John's: look out for Sammy. To realise that Dean had really felt like he couldn't go on – had prayed to a god he didn't believe in and that had taken his brother for death, absence, not-feeling – had felt so much desperation and agony –

Did Dean really think Sam would feel any less? Loved him any less?

He moved slowly back into the bedroom area. It was still dark. He straightened his sheets mechanically and climbed back into bed, lying down again, although not to sleep. Instead he stared up at the ceiling and felt a new sense of calm and determination come over him. He might have succumbed to despair yesterday, but he couldn't let it become overwhelming. He owed Dean more than that, and he owed himself more than to just let his brother drift away without a fight, as well.

This was another setback; a fucking huge one, but not insurmountable. It had already occurred to him that he it might come to his having to rescue Dean from hell, not spare him it. That was how this whole Jonathan Strange experiment had started. It had even been a successful experiment, in some ways; the things he'd learned about magic, about his own power, were astounding and effective and in the next few months, when he and Dean were ready to laugh about this, it was going to be useful to them when they hunted, together.

He brought his notes back to bed and sat on the floor with the light from the bedside table, shielded from Dean. He spent the early hours of the morning reviewing his work, looking at the lines of research he'd abandoned for English magic, reminding himself which had seemed most promising. There weren't many, but there was work he could be doing.

He needed to get Dean to a city, one with a decent university library. They were actually within a couple of days of Stanford, but he couldn't ask Dean to take him there; it would look to Dean like Sam was getting ready to let go of him, and he wasn't letting Dean think that. They could probably make the Norlin Library at Boulder with a solid day's driving.

He waited until it had been light for a couple of hours then went out, pulling the door to behind him, and called Bobby from the parking lot.

“Yeah,” Bobby answered the phone, clipped and short.

“It's Sam,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

Bobby's voice went instantly warm with his rough brand of affection. “Hey, Sam. It's been a while since I heard from you boys.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam said. “I was chasing a lead.”

“You mean...” Bobby let his voice trail off meaningfully.

“Yeah. But it didn't pan out.”

“I'm sorry,” Bobby said. “Sam, maybe it's not my place, but maybe it's time you quit, let Dean enjoy the time he's got left. What is it now, ten days?”

“He's enjoying himself fine,” Sam said briefly. Who cared if Dean enjoyed the time he had left? It wasn't going to be enough to balance out an eternity in hell.

“With his brother obsessing his fool ass off, chasing leads that don't take him anywhere and out making calls at seven in the morning? You spending a lick of time with him?” Bobby said bluntly.

“Yes, I am,” Sam snapped. “We're fine, he's fine, this isn't why I called.”

Bobby sighed down the phone. Sam winced at his disappointment, but he'd borne it before. Bobby didn't want Dean in hell but he wasn't sentimental and he believed in facing a situation dead-on, not pie-in-the-sky thinking. They'd had more than one argument in the past year about Sam pushing himself and Dean too hard, burying his head in the sand.

“Okay,” Bobby said heavily. “What do you need?”

“I'm going to hit up Norlin library at the University of Colorado and I need Dean distracted. He's been talking about working over the arsenal, I need a supplier in the area who'll do some barter and exchange, keep him busy for a few hours.”

“Boulder, okay. I know a guy, Tim Malone. Gun nut, so he and Dean should find plenty to talk about. I'll email you the address when I find it, think he's outside the city limits but it should be close enough. You want me to call him, let him know you're coming?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said.

“What are you working on now?” Bobby said. He hesitated before adding, “Anything I can do?”

“I don't think so,” Sam said. “I've got a couple more ideas I haven't exhausted yet. Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate this.”

“Take care of yourself, Sam. And of that brother of yours.”

“I'm trying,” Sam said. “Bye.”

He hung up and headed back inside. They needed to hit the road.

Dean was happy enough to go see a new contact of Bobby's and they settled into the gleaming car and put her north in short order. Dean didn't seem to mind the prospect of a whole day driving and Sam was grateful to have him so agreeable. He kept remembering his dream whenever he looked at Dean, wondering whether he'd just been projecting or whether he'd really managed to push himself somehow into Dean's headspace or memory. It felt invasive when he thought about it like that, like he'd taken something private; he doubted Dean liked to remember that time, or would be happy to know Sam had seen and felt him in it. But Sam couldn't regret it: it reminded him what was at stake, that brief glimpse of Dean's past and what was in Sam's future if he didn't get his act together.

Sam made some quick notes about his planned avenues of research, but put them away when he noticed Dean starting to cast suspicious glances at his notebook. He let himself relax into the seat. Maybe Bobby had got to him a little, about Sam needing to spend time with Dean. Of course they spent all day every day together, but Sam knew he could get stuck in his own head sometimes and he also knew how easy it was to feel lonely with other people right next to you. And Dean would never ask for what he wanted.

“Okay, fuck or death,” he said, slanting a look over at Dean: “that woman who taught me math in junior year.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, remembering. “That was the one with the...”

“Facial hair, yeah,” Sam said, sniggering. “The one who called you a nasty philistine boy when you said you didn't see why I had to learn algebra 'cause you'd never paid attention and you'd never missed it.”

“Harsh!” Dean said happily. “Does she have her ruler? Maybe I could get behind it if she has her ruler. Or get behind her.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Dean!” Sam said, laughing back. “I don't need to know your pervy little thoughts, gross.”

And they were off, as Sam had planned. Dean could use an opening like that for a good hour or two of rambling, in the right mood, and he'd soon covered his top ten high school teachers, a girl who'd asked him to spank her with a ruler, spirit levels, why alcohol was called spirits, a bar fight he'd been in that wasn't his fault, a bar fight he'd been in that was his fault but the guy had it coming, the movie he'd watched while recovering from the bar fight, the best way to deal with broken ribs, emergency room décor and how he'd theme a motel. Sam watched him and threw in the occasional comment to make him laugh. It was a good drive.

Several hours later they pulled into a motel on the outskirts of Boulder. Sam volunteered to get the room, pocketing a map of Boulder and a couple of bus schedules while he was in reception. The room was dingy but neat enough and on the end of the row, which Dean preferred for security. Night was coming in fast, so they made do with vending machine mystery meat pies and beers and went to sleep early.

At breakfast the next morning Sam floated the idea of Dean going to see Bobby's supplier on his own.

“What?” Dean said. “You got something better to do?”

“The school here has a really good library,” Sam said, trying to sound light. “I've got preliminary material on some stuff that could be hunts, I could use the research. I think my brain is atrophying.”

“Sam, if I'm going to get new hardware you should be with me,” Dean argued. He eyed Sam to see if he had to add 'because you're going to be the one using it, not me'; Sam gave a curt nod to leave the words unspoken.

Sam said, “I'll shoot anything you tell me is worth shooting and you've never had problems picking out blades I like.” This was true; it had actually been Dean who'd spotted Sam's frustrations with shooting, which for Sam had been a long, slow learning curve, and suggested to John that it would be useful for them as a team if Sam concentrated more on hand-to-hand and knife fighting. He'd been eleven then, starting to chafe for the first time against the restrictions of being a Winchester. It had been Dean who put a knife into his hands a year later (although John taught them both to use it), Dean who asked John's suppliers about blades 'for my kid brother here, he's a freakin whirlwind', Dean who taught himself advanced techniques he could pass to Sam to perfect when John started expecting him to show improvement on his own. Sam let the memories show in his eyes and went on, “I trust you.”

Dean didn't look satisfied but he said okay anyway. “I'll take you,” he added.

“It's out of your way,” Sam said, “I've found a bus already.”

“Not up for discussion. I want to know where you are,” Dean said shortly. Sam gave in on that one.

Dean dropped him outside the Norlin library and Sam went inside. He paused just inside the door, taking a moment to orient himself. It had been a while since he was in an academic library, and this was one of the biggest collections in the country. He took a moment to feel pleasure at it.

He found the sweetest-looking librarian he could and convinced her that he was looking at grad schools, and he just loved libraries, actually it was probably going to be the biggest thing that decided him, he knew that was wrong but libraries were so important, and could she possibly, if it wasn't too much trouble – only if it wasn't any trouble – explain the catalogue to him? And was it maybe all right if he spent a little time looking around? She was happy to and he certainly could, and quickly Sam headed up to the Comparative Religion section, which was conveniently close to Mythology and Folklore.

He started looking up will o' the wisps. He'd mentioned a possible hunt involving them to Dean and he didn't put it past his brother to quiz him on what he'd supposedly been doing all day, so he needed some hunting-related research to show him. They already had material on wisps from their dad's journal, so he did some cursory reading, reassured himself he'd called the story right, and then moved on to his real purpose with a sense of relief.

He concentrated on Inanna, the Babylonian story of her descent into the underworld to save her sister. She'd been required to rid herself of all artifice and approach the gods naked; the famous dance of the seven veils was said to be based on her journey. He wasn't entirely sure it was relevant – it seemed pretty formal and even generous, for what he knew of the hell he was dealing with. But actually getting into hell wasn't his problem, it was what to do to get Dean back once he got there. He already knew where there was a gate to it, and possessed the only key.

He absorbed himself in the versions of the tale and the studies on it. Language was always such a problem looking at these ancient texts. He couldn't be sure there wasn't something crucial that had been missed in translation.

After a few hours he'd read pretty much all he was going to on Inanna, and he still hadn't found a smoking gun to convince him he'd found anything practically useful. His eyes were scratchy, his back ached and his stomach was complaining, but he ignored them all, used to discounting physical discomfort not only from his upbringing but also from the cramming and marathon study sessions that had been so important in keeping his full ride.

He browsed the shelves to see if anything popped out at him. Sam was a somewhat embarrassed secret believer in synchronicity and he'd found profitable lines of research in stuff he picked up seemingly at random.

There was one book. He hesitated a moment, then pulled it slowly from the shelves, picking out a couple of the ones next to it as well and taking them back to the desk he'd claimed for himself.

Enochian magic, using the language Dr John Dee had thought taught to him by the angels. He and Dean had run into it – on that film set? The haunting on the film set. It had been the first time he'd ever seen anyone use it, and that was just some of the weaker summoning rituals translated into Latin, read awkwardly by a woman with no idea what she was doing, no ritual and no power. He'd heard of it first historically, in a biography of Elizabeth I, and when he'd taken it to his dad as something that could possibly be of use he'd been warned sternly against it. He'd asked Pastor Jim, later, and Bobby, and they'd both repeated the warnings but added explanations: how powerful Enochian magic was, how it needed years of training to attempt and even then couldn't ever be assumed safe, how he was never to look into it.

He had, of course, stubborn and unconvinced of his father's good reasons for anything as he'd been by then. He'd ascertained their power for himself, found the bloody horror stories of what had happened to people who tried the magic even slightly unprepared. He'd decided to heed the warnings.

Some of the warnings had obviously survived in his mind, for him not to have considered it yet to help Dean. But books and resources on Enochian magic were rare and not very informative; it was an obscure branch of magic, barely practised because of its danger and way of punishing even those to whom it gave success. Bobby would have killed him for mentioning it and Dean probably would have burnt any texts on it he found Sam with.

He turned to a clean page of his notebook and opened the book he'd first seen.

Dean called him not long after that. Sam was in a hazy researching rhythm – read a page make notes, read a page make notes, and it took him a moment to break out of it and scramble for his phone, not quite fast enough not to earn himself some glares.

“What?” he hissed.

Dean's voice came down the phone breezily. “I'm done, I'm here, get your ass downstairs.”

“You're here?” Sam stared at his books in dismay, got up and tried to pick them up in one arm, the other holding the phone at his ear. “In the library?”

“Nah, I might get library cooties,” Dean said. “Outside, double-parked. Hurry up.”

He hung up. Sam swore under his breath and jammed the books higgledy-piggledy back onto the shelves. He grabbed his stuff, careful to close his notebook and shove it to the bottom of his bag, and went downstairs.

It was nearly dusk, the last rays of sunlight spidering over the clouds. He hadn't realised he'd been at it so long. He spotted the Impala, went over and let himself in.

“Okay?” Dean said. He dropped a sandwich and a candy bar into Sam's lap. “This'll tide you over. Get much done?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, relying on his rapid devouring of the sandwich to save him from having to elaborate. “You? Bobby's guy good?”

“Yeah, he was real good,” Dean said. He was smiling. “Good range of stuff, knew a lot. I sort of lost track of time there.”

“That's okay,” Sam said indistinctly.

“Cleaning tonight,” Dean said. “You can do all the new gear, get you used to it.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“I live to give you things!” Dean said heartlessly. “And then target practice tomorrow, I bet there's fields around that motel we can use, it's enough of a shithole.”

Tomorrow he was going back to the library, Sam had a lot to do. He said, “Okay,” again and ate the candy bar in two bites.

* * *

Sam made sure he woke up before Dean the next morning and sneaked out, leaving a note to tell him he'd gone back to the library. He didn't want to risk the shower so he was going to smell of gun oil, but that couldn't be helped. He'd just have to avoid people. Sam saw weapons maintenance as a necessary evil but Dean enjoyed it and he'd been talkative and relaxed the previous night.

It was still early and the library was quiet. Sam found his desk from the previous day and went back to reclaim the same books he'd been working on. Soon he was ensconced comfortably. Enochian magic was all about angels, Sam didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before; if any creature had power equal to or greater than that of demons, it had to be angels, demons' unfallen kin. They were almost impossible to summon and almost certainly actually impossible to direct in any meaningful way, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth trying. And thinking about Enochian magic last night he'd had some thoughts in the direction of chaos magic, as well. They were both powerful, nigh-uncontrollable magical systems, but if the whole failed experiment with the fairy had shown him anything it was that only appeals to the highest, most demanding powers were worth anything in his situation.

He'd taken the precaution of putting his cell onto silent today before going into the library. When he checked it mid-morning he had a couple of missed calls and several texts. He read the first one, 'y lib thought shooting 2day?', and didn't bother with the rest, although he didn't delete them.

He was reading about chaos magic when Dean showed up, his face grim.

“Sam, what the fuck is the matter with you, answer your damn phone,” he growled, stalking over to Sam's desk and leaning over him.

“I turned it off,” Sam said. He leaned back in his chair, sweeping his notebook onto his lap and from there into his bag as unobtrusively as possible and trying his hardest to be obnoxious; maybe he could goad Dean into a quick exit without his noticing what, exactly, was so important as to get Sam leaving in secret. At least he'd already returned the books on Enochian magic to the shelves.

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean said, obviously annoyed, but Sam could see the anxiety underneath it and it twisted his heart.

“Sorry, Dean, I didn't realise you'd be so lonely,” Sam said, getting up and trying to move Dean away from the desk. “Just getting in another couple of hours.”

“You left before seven in the morning, I was up not long after,” Dean said. He stopped, refusing to be led away. “Getting in another couple of hours of what?”

“Research on jobs, I told you that,” Sam said, getting seriously worried. He had to get Dean out.

“And now you're just leaving these books? That's me, Sam, you always put them back,” Dean said suspiciously, his voice starting to rise.

“Christ, keep your voice down,” Sam said. People were starting to look.

Dean pulled away from his attempt at a guiding hand and was on the books before Sam could stop him. “What the hell is this? Chaos magic, what the fuck?” He was truly angry now, his voice deepening, his face granite.

“We're not doing this here,” Sam said, and he grabbed Dean and started pushing him bodily towards the exit. He felt Dean resisting, getting even madder at being manhandled, but he kept enough sense to realise they couldn't fight in a university library and although he pulled sharply out of Sam's grasp he followed Sam to the exit.

“Start talking,” Dean demanded as soon as they got in the car, pulling away with a squeal of tires that told Sam how genuinely furious his brother was; he never subjected the Impala to his moods.

“Motel,” was the only thing Sam said. Dean blew out a breath next to him but Sam set his face resolutely at the window and Dean acquiesced, speeding back to the motel.

He slammed into the room, shepherding Sam in front of him. Sam had left his bag in the car, fearing what Dean might do to it if he found out the direction of his research, so he didn't have anything to do with his hands, just spread them apart, trying to calm Dean down.

Dean grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall and yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Sam almost cringed away, instinctively, but controlled it. “I told you-”

“Am I fucking stupid?” All at once Dean let the pressure off and Sam stumbled as he jerked away. “Chaos magic, we never take hunts with that shit, nobody does 'cause it's fucked up, you know it is, and now you think what, it's gonna save me? You've got eight days, you're gonna save me with chaos?”

“Why not? God knows you're not lifting a damn finger!” Sam yelled back, getting furious himself. All this time, this whole year he'd tried to say to Dean, over and over, he mattered, Sam couldn't do without him and he still wouldn't get it.

“Because you can't risk yourself like that, what the fuck is the point of what I did-”

“I never asked you to, you did worse, the demon was worse, Dean-”

“The hell it was, at least it was me doing it-”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Sam shouted, surging away from the wall and using his height over Dean, for once, backing him up against the unmade bed.

Dean sat, abruptly, and rubbed his face in the familiar gesture, getting a grip.

“Sam.” He looked up wearily. “Ruby – and this last month, you think I don't know you've been trying something – and now it's chaos magic, fuck, Dad would kill us. Everything you're doing, it's from you, it's changing you, and the thing that makes it worst is that you don't even seem to care.”

“Dean-” Sam backed off, hit the wall and slid down it bonelessly. “Don't you see, I have to, if that's what it takes...”

“There's other ways to wind up in hell than deals and you're making me watch them all,” Dean said, worn and low.

“I can't lose you,” Sam said. “Dean, please.”

Dean looked him straight in the eyes, his own clear and shining too brightly. “You said to me, when you called me on everything, you remember? You said you wanted your brother back. Now I'm saying it to you. Remember? Just 'cause.”

“I remember,” Sam whispered. He couldn't cry but his throat was swollen and his eyes were hot. He shuffled over to where Dean was slumped on the bed and leaned against it, pulling his knees up and hiding his face.

A slow loaded moment passed, and then Dean's hand was in his hair, stroking gently, soft and sorry.

* * *

They stayed like that for a while and then Dean urged Sam up and sat him on the bed. Sam watched Dean move around the room, gathering their stuff and packing it away haphazardly. When Dean started carrying it out to the car Sam summoned his strength and got up to help. They were awkward around each other, quiet and too polite, but eventually Sam let Dean load him into the car as well and they put Boulder behind them.

They put down two hundred miles and pulled into another motel just before dark. Dean pulled the curtains, turned the heating up and the television on. They ordered a pizza delivery, the nearest thing there was to Winchester childhood comfort food and sat on the bed away from the door to eat, occasionally passing comment on the TV but keeping far away from personal topics. When it was time to go to bed Dean pulled up the room's rickety armchair and propped his feet on Sam's bed, watching over him until he fell asleep.

The next day Sam asked tentatively if Dean still wanted to go out and try the new weaponry. He agreed and they grabbed breakfast in a convenience store and set out to search for a good place. They needed somewhere reasonably far from a residential area, somewhere gunshots wouldn't be noticed, but preferably a field with space and visibility; they were in a pretty built-up place, a busy suburb of somewhere or other, and it took a while to find a suitable spot.

Sam took a minute to familiarise himself with each gun before shooting, loading and unloading the clips a couple of times, reminding himself what he'd thought about each piece when he'd been cleaning them the other night. Dean had picked up a couple of new shotguns – they went through shotguns ridiculously quickly, the salt rounds tending to make them unreliable within a few months – a pistol, a new automatic, although Sam didn't like them and never used them if he had another option. Sam practised with them all, firing from a variety of stances, including from on the floor; not exactly recommended but they often found themselves shooting in the midst of a fight and they had to be sure of their aim; often they were shooting things that wouldn't be affected at all by a poorly-placed shot, unlike human beings.

He shot steadily until he was happy with the new guns, and then he carried on until Dean was happy with his performance with them.

He was happier to see the knives come out, especially the set of throwing knives, perfectly weighted with a slightly longer handle than the standard, another knife that was practically a sword, made like a Japanese katana, folded and strong, an elegant stiletto of pure silver. He practised forms with them, getting to used to the feel of and reach of them in his hands, Dean watching from where he was reclined on the ground. When he was satisfied he put the blades away, carefully, polishing them with a soft cloth before lying them in their boxes ready to have places found for them in the trunk.

Then he threw himself down next to Dean, drinking deeply from the bottle of water next to him. He was warm from the exertion, down to his t-shirt and flushed.

“Okay?” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You've still got a good eye.”

“You want to spar?” Dean offered.

“Sure,” Sam said, “just give me another minute.” They didn't actually spar all that often. The moves were instinctive to them at this point, didn't need constant reinforcing and training, and they knew each other's fighting styles so exactly that there wasn't much point in spending a lot of time doing it, not when they'd be using more energy trying not to actually hurt each other. And half the time one or the other of them was recovering from sprains or bruising or worse; pushing training when they were injured was a part of John's regimen they'd abandoned without discussion, very early on.

Dean gave him ten minutes before pulling him up. He took off his own outer shirt and did a couple of stretches, loosening his muscles, and then with a quick nod they began.

They circled for a couple of minutes, each waiting for the other to give himself away, and then Dean kicked out and they were off. Sam couldn't keep track of the moves he was using and parrying, too quick and natural, but he became aware he was grinning, fiercely, and Dean was mirroring the expression as they moved fluidly and fast around the field and each other, neither getting the upper hand.

Sam made the first mistake and Dean took instant advantage, flipping Sam over his leg and onto the ground.

“Give?” he said, looking down at Sam.

“Yeah, I give,” Sam said, and when Dean moved to get up grappled him down into a wrestling match, which Dean greeted with a yelp of offended shock. Already pleasantly physically tired, it soon devolved into a tickling and hair-pulling chick fight, and eventually they lay side-by-side and argued half-heartedly about who had to get up and bring the water over.

Sam was surprised to find most of the day had passed while they'd been in the field. Dean insisted they change their dusty shirts before he get into the car, and Sam had to prod him back into movement as he stared tiredly into space with the new shirt half-on. They went back to the motel and showered off the exercise before heading out to eat.

Afterwards they picked up a six-pack and settled in again in front of the TV. Sam had dropped into a doze when Dean said quietly, “I'm just going to get some air,” and headed out to the lot, gripping his beer.

Sam went to the window when he didn't come back in soon. Dean was sitting on the hood of the Impala, the curve of his shoulders round and afraid. He looked up suddenly, as if he'd heard something in the distance, and Sam felt a slow dread wrap tendrils around his mind.

“You're hearing them, aren't you,” he said quietly when Dean came back in. “The hellhounds.”

Dean put his bottle on the table, sat on Sam's bed and started taking off his boots, rigid precision in his movements.

“Yeah. It started this afternoon.”

Sam toyed with his beer, unable to look at Dean's face. “Oh.”

“So this is it,” Dean said abruptly. “Okay? No more research all day and I never see you, Sam. We're done.”

“Okay,” Sam promised. “Is there anyone... do you want to go see anyone?”

“No,” Dean said with finality. “We'll go somewhere, we'll find somewhere tomorrow. Somewhere nice. And then, we'll just, I don't know. Whatever.”

“Okay,” Sam said again.

Dean looked at him, nearly, focusing on the wallpaper just past his head. “Is there anything – did you ever find anything?”

“No,” Sam whispered. “For a while I thought... but nothing worked. Dean. I'm so sorry. I told you... and I'm so sorry.” He felt numb, unable to believe it had come to this, one week left and telling his brother all his cocky assurances had been empty lies, that he couldn't save Dean the way Dean had saved Sam, over and over. He couldn't help the tears that came to his eyes and he ducked his head to hide them. Like he had anything to cry about, fuck. Dean was everything he had and all he'd done was let him down when it meant the most.

“Hey. Hey, come on. Sammy.” Dean crawled up the bed and grabbed Sam by the back of his neck, shaking him gently and forcing his head up until their eyes met. “I'm not gonna lie again. I'm scared, I am, I don't want to go and I don't want it to be like this. But I don't regret any of it, you hear? It was worth it.”

Tears were standing in his eyes, making them a brilliant green, but his smile reached them, soft and sure.

Sam cried on his brother's shoulder for a long time and when he was done they lay down together, Dean letting him clutch the way they had as small children, and they slept.

* * *

They got on the road again the next morning, and Sam couldn't process that it was the last time, that Dean was looking for a place where he could die. Sam's role was done, for now; he still didn't plan to just leave Dean in hell but he wasn't going to find anything new in six days that could stop him from going there. He'd promised Dean they would spend his last days together and he meant to stick to it, give him what he wanted.

They drove for a couple of hours and then Dean came off the freeway at the sign for Blue Springs, Kansas, pop. 16,000.

“Kansas?” Sam checked. Dean usually didn't enjoy being in the state.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Feels right.”

Dean pulled in when they were still on the outskirts of the town. The house had obviously been abandoned for some time; a room at the side looked like it had been added later and yet been the first to go, standing in a half-ruin. But the rest of the house looked sturdily constructed, stands of mature trees on three sides would help cover their presence, and there was room to get the car round to the back and hidden.

The inside wasn't in bad shape. The main living room had an open stone fireplace and could be shut off from the rest of the house to keep lights and noise low. There was running water and Dean went into the storm cellar and found an old but functional emergency generator, so they could have some electricity. Sam didn't love squatting but Dean had got more cagey about their privacy since the FBI got on their trail and Sam understood why he didn't want to worry about unwanted attention now.

There were a couple of mattresses upstairs and Sam dragged them down into the main room and jammed them together with their blankets piled over them. He found a couple of wooden chairs and brought them in too, arranging them around the small camping stove Dean kept stashed in the trunk. While he got the inside something approaching habitable Dean clattered around with the generator and searched around the house for firewood. He brought in a small pile as Sam was finishing up and built a fire with newspaper and lighters, waiting for the touch of a match later.

Next step was to go into town and pick up food they could heat on the stove. Sam paid careful attention to the surroundings of the house as they drove towards town, noting the types of houses, who might live there, whether they'd be inclined to call the police if they saw suspicious activity in a ramshackle old house or turn a blind eye. They looked to be in a rougher end of town; they'd be careful, but probably they didn't have to worry too much. Theirs wasn't the only empty house and the lack of shops and services until they got closer to the town centre suggested that there wasn't much of a sense of community in the area.

They picked up hotdogs and buns, canned food, fruit that wouldn't spoil, a cooked chicken, cookies and candy, beer and Jack. Dean got the makings of s'mores.

They didn't talk much. Sam felt a little like he was watching proceedings from far away, like he'd put himself away in a corner of his mind to scream and rail, and the rest of him was carrying on walking around. They were a little more subdued than usual; they didn't tease each other or argue. Sam went along with whatever Dean wanted, and Dean looked like he might protest, if he could work out what to protest about.

They shoved the stuff in the trunk and went for coffee. Sam searched for a normal topic of conversation but couldn't remember any. He slouched lower in his seat and Dean's knee knocked against his, once.

They ate the chicken that night, cold with peas and sweetcorn boiled up on the camping stove. Sam wasn't hungry but Dean was watching him, so he forced down his whole helping and then stared at Dean to make sure he finished his. The fire crackled warmly and they hadn't bothered switching on the lights, although a torch was propped up against the wall, casting shadows. It was almost cosy. Then Sam read a novel by the torchlight, going over each page four or five times before he took any of it in, while Dean made his s'mores and passed the gooiest ones back to him.

It wasn't too bad, if he didn't think too hard about it. Sam couldn't believe this was how they were spending one of Dean's precious last nights but he couldn't think what else they could do, either. They weren't talking, were only sporadically even looking at each other, but he thought if he couldn't – if Dean went off to find a girl or a pastime or anything and Sam couldn't look up and see he was still right there – he might go crazy. He knew Dean was trying not to show that the hellhounds were around, and he did him the favour of ignoring it when he slipped and jerked his head up to their growls. When he couldn't ignore it any more he announced he was tired, although it was early, and climbed under the blankets. Dean got in at the other side and Sam went to sleep looking at the back of his head.

Try as he did to hold every moment fixed and imprinted onto his memory, the days went past in a haze of habit and grief. Dean seemed to only want to do normal, quiet things: he went over the car carefully, inside and out, until she looked like she was just out of the showroom, then pulled Sam out and made him name all the parts of the engine, what they did, how they went wrong and what to do to fix them. He cleaned all the weapons, again, and rearranged them in the trunk. He cooked, to the extent that heating stuff on the stove and fire could be called cooking. He produced needle and thread from somewhere and mended Sam's clothes with the big clumsy stitches Sam remembered from his gym clothes when he was a kid, before Dean started regularly stitching up John and then Sam, cursing almost constantly under his breath.

A few times he ducked outside to make phonecalls and Sam tried to give him his privacy for that, even though he was interested in who Dean cared about enough to want to say goodbye to, and ignored it when he came in with red eyes, like he'd cried. He couldn't be jealous of Dean's time when there was so little of it left, and Dean had chosen to stay it all with Sam.

He spent a lot of time watching Sam, and Sam tried to oblige what he seemed to want, reading, messing on the laptop, writing in his notebook, doing the things that were normal from him for Dean. He tried to encourage Dean to go out, find a bar in the town, but Dean refused quietly and got Sam to bed for another early night. Sam kept waking up in the dark, from dreams dark and busy and lingering, with Dean wrapped around him, head or hand always somewhere near a thudding pulse point, although they always went to sleep and woke up a careful distance apart.

The count was always in his mind. Sometimes he saw it when he closed his eyes, floating in big cartoon figures. Soon enough it was down to one.

Sam couldn't think what else to do but follow Dean's cues, and Dean seemed to be pretending it was just another day. It wasn't enough. There was so much Sam had to say, wanted to do; but he'd known for the last year that it wasn't going to be enough time for them all. A day certainly wasn't. He stuck close to Dean, reverting at the last to the baby brother demanding attention and affection, and Dean seemed grateful to find Sam there every time he turned around, touching his arm or slapping his back or brushing shoulders. Sam hated it. Dean should have been complaining about crowding and personal space; he should have been joking that Sam had to buy him dinner first and wondering when he got a little sister. He shouldn't have had to soak up Sam's touch not knowing which of them would be the last.

“You want to go out to eat?” Dean said, coming up to lunchtime. Sam had been debating whether to ask, wondering if Dean would feel too much like he was eating the last meal of the condemned man, or if the thought of a good meal would outweigh that.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “What do you feel like?” His voice was perfectly even. He'd caught Dean's mood of pretending exactly, or else his mind had just shut down all feeling. He wasn't sure which.

“Steak okay?”

“Sure.”

Dean scowled at having to drive the Impala over the rough damp ground around the house, just like always, and Sam bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood not to let the sadness onto his face. They found a steakhouse without too much trouble. The waitress smiled and asked them if it was a special occasion. Dean wasn't looking at Sam, so he muttered no. She gave them a table right next to the kitchen.

Sam played with his food, shovelling down a few bites that tasted ashy in his mouth. He knew Dean was noticing but he couldn't do any more than that. Nausea was never far away. Dean also ate slowly, but methodically, tasting everything. For a minute Sam regretted the hedonistic glutton Dean had been at the beginning of the year, hungry for food and sex and life, enjoying every second as much as he could; that Dean had pissed him off but Sam had been able to pretend his brother wasn't scribbling a year-long suicide note on the world.

They skipped dessert and headed out. As soon as they were back in the house Dean went for the Jack Daniels, pouring Sam a large measure, straight. He kept the bottle to drink from.

It was two thirty. Sam assumed they had until midnight. Less than twelve hours left together.

“I still don't wish it had gone differently,” Dean said suddenly. Sam threw the shot back and held out his glass. Dean topped him up, his gaze resting on Sam, fierce and loving and guilty. “We got another year. I did right by you. I'm proud of you, Sammy.”

Sam choked, and then he was crying. Dean came over and slid his arm around his shoulders and Sam turned into him blindly. Dean held him for a couple of minutes, stroking his back like Sam was a colicky baby again.

“You're the only one who thinks your life was just something to bargain with,” Sam said. “Oh God, Dean. I love you. Don't make a fucking joke.”

“I know,” Dean said softly. “I wouldn't.” He pulled away and wiped at Sam's cheeks. He was crying himself now but still so focused on Sam, always focused on Sam. “Sammy, I know my moral high ground on this is a ditch, but don't let this take over your life, please. I'm asking you not to.”

Sam nodded. He couldn't promise, not even to reassure Dean. He put his face in his hands, feeling pure despair threaten to overwhelm him. He felt Dean's hand on his neck, a kiss pressed to his temple, and then his vision greyed and he passed out.

* * *

When he woke he was sure it was moments later and yelled for his brother, panicked and shaky.

“Hey, easy there,” a voice soothed him and for a microsecond it was reassuring, familiar, and he relaxed until he placed it.

“Bobby? What are you doing here?” He tried to get up but his limbs wouldn't support him and he fell back to the mattress. “Where's Dean?” Terror shook him and his voice faltered. “Bobby, where's Dean?”

“I'm sorry,” Bobby said. He came into Sam's field of vision. He looked grey and tired, old. “It's over, Sam. I'm sorry.”

“No,” Sam denied, frantic, “no, he was just here, we've got hours. You're wrong.”

Bobby sat next to him, pulling Sam up with brusque gentleness and holding a cup to his lips. Sam drank helplessly, realising how parched he was.

“Tell me,” he said, barely recognising his own voice.

“You've just woken up,” Bobby said.

“I've got to know!” Sam thought about how lousy he felt, the abrupt wakening. “He sedated me, didn't he? Bobby, what's he done?”

“Okay,” Bobby said. “It's tomorrow to you, I guess. Pretty late. He gave you a lot, didn't want you to wake up before I could get here.”

“Bobby,” Sam snapped.

“He called me yesterday afternoon, told me where you were and that he'd put you to sleep. Then, I think... he handed himself in to the police, Sam,” Bobby said. “Made a confession, far as I can figure, all that FBI shit on you boys. The police here are hushing it up some but he walked in yesterday afternoon, admitted to the crimes. Of course they kept him in custody, and that was where... They've got no prisoner and no body, just a lot of blood and a drunk in the cell next door swears he heard dogs howling.”

Sam was hollow. “So he was all alone.”

“He was trying to take care of you,” Bobby said uselessly.

“I'm gonna be sick,” Sam said, and was.

Bobby got Sam sat in a chair while he cleaned it up. Sam stared out of the window. The sun was getting low in the sky and it still felt like yesterday to him. How was he supposed to accept this, when it felt to him like they still had hours? Hours could have meant the world. They could have done anything, as long as they still had a few hours.

“Sam,” Bobby said, when he was done.

“Don't,” Sam said. He kept staring out the window. He couldn't bring himself to be mad at Dean, who'd died – gone down to hell – all on his own. Sam had sworn to himself that wouldn't happen, that at least Dean wouldn't have to face it on his own. He thought of how Dean had admitted he was afraid, of how scared he must have been, away from Sam, in a strange cold cell, nothing he cared about anywhere within reach.

He thought about where Dean was now but his mind skittered away from it. The grief for the loss was too much to wrap his head around. He could only manage tiny pieces at a time, pulling out each fact and examining it: Dean had been alone, now Sam was alone, Bobby said there'd been blood. If he felt any of them he wanted to scream and rage and claw his pain onto the world, but his body wasn't up to that right now, so he sat quietly and looked out of his window.

Bobby brought him water and crackers and sat in the other chair and watched him like Sam was an unpredictable wild animal, unexpectedly caged.

Pretty soon Sam was too tired to stay awake, after-effects of the sedation. He could see, weirdly, how Dean had meant it as a last kindness, forcing him to rest when he needed it, since Dean couldn't be there to cajole and coerce. Dean had known exactly how Sam would feel, had watched him grieve for Jess, had grieved for a brother in his turn.

Sam would have quite happily made a deal if the demon popped up before him now, done his bit for their stupid family cycle. Made it, and been on-his-knees grateful for the opportunity.

He slept for a long time and woke up still lethargic. There was no blissful moment of peace before the world came back to him; he woke suffused with devastation, like someone had threaded it into each of his cells while he slept, put it in his DNA until it was all that defined him.

Bobby was up. Sam didn't know where he'd slept, or whether he'd slept at all. He brought more water, then a couple of sandwiches. When Sam had finished them, stolid and slow over every bite, he said tentatively, “I think we should leave. It's not going to take long for the FBI to get here and start looking for you as well.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “You look surprised.” Bobby did. His forehead had creased under his cap.

“No, that's good, Sam. I guess I thought, maybe you'd want to see...”

“The jail?” Bobby nodded. “Why? We know what happened to Dean. Unless there's something you're not telling me.” He couldn't help his voice going dark, although Bobby was the person he was closest to in the world now; there wasn't anyone left who knew him better than Bobby.

“No, I've told you what I know,” Bobby said, seeming to understand and take it. “I'll follow the local papers for a while, see if anything else comes up.”

Sam nodded. He wasn't worried about the local papers. He'd try to get into their databases as soon as he could, see what exactly Dean had confessed to, what they'd reported happening to him. He didn't know if he wished there was a body, but he was glad some crappy backwoods police set didn't have Dean. He would have wanted his dignity, if nothing else.

It also meant Dean was in hell bodily. That was going to make it easier, when Sam went to fetch him out.

“Okay, get dressed and we'll get gone,” Bobby said. Sam saw that he'd already packed Sam's stuff, ready to go out to the car. There was only one bag; he didn't know where Dean's stuff was. He asked Bobby.

He looked uncomfortable. “It's in the trunk of the car. I guess he did it himself, ready. Sam, about the car. I think you should ride with me back to my place, you're in no condition for long-distance driving. I'll send someone for it.”

“No,” Sam said flatly. “Nobody drives Dean's car except me.”

“And when you wrap it around a tree, you think Dean'd want that?” Bobby said. Sam looked at him and he went a little pale, as if he'd just thought that maybe Sam would, and mean to. “I mean, come on, Sam. I don't think you should be left alone.”

“Then you can ride with me and send someone back for the truck,” Sam said. “You're the one who said the FBI would probably come sliming around, I'm supposed to leave the car for them to find? No way. The car comes with me or I'm staying with it.”

“Okay,” Bobby said quietly. “We'll get on the road for a couple of hours, see how we go. Once we're out of the area we can think about it again.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed. He didn't have the energy to argue, but he wasn't letting the car go now.

Bobby was right, he wasn't really in a condition to drive, but that was good. He had to concentrate minutely on driving properly, the way Dean did naturally, easy on the gearbox and the wheel, and it was all the effort he could manage to stay exactly in the centre of his lane, not drift and let the horizon hypnotise him. He fixed his eyes front, on the road, and pretended Dean was asleep in the back, just outside the rearview mirror, and Sam could check on him whenever he wanted.

He slipped up once. His eyes flicked over to the dash and caught the clock and the thought came, fully formed and unbidden, Dean's been in hell for thirty-eight hours.

He put on Led Zeppelin and sang along as loudly as he could.

Bobby was ahead of him and he pulled in at a rest stop after only a couple of hours. Sam wouldn't say but he was happy to rest for a while. His leg was starting to shake where he was pressing it to the gas and spots were swimming in front of his vision.

Sam ordered rounds of wholewheat toast, until Bobby looked anxious and then he got a burger. Bobby ordered orange juice for him, and a pot of coffee each.

He didn't really want to to talk and Bobby didn't push it, although Sam could feel the gaze resting on him thoughtfully. He picked at his food, leaving most of the bun and the lettuce leaves. He ate the meat and tomato and some fries, more out of the awareness that he had to be conscious enough to drive the car than any real hunger.

“How are you doing?” Bobby said when they'd finished and the girl had been by for their plates.

“I'm fine,” Sam said. “I can keep driving.”

“Okay,” Bobby said.

“Ruby let me down,” Sam said abruptly. Bobby knew her; he'd trusted her enough, on Sam's word, to let her teach him the Colt. He deserved to know she hadn't come through.

Bobby looked at him sharply. “I was wondering if you'd bring her up. Wasn't you, then.”

“What wasn't me?” Sam said, baffled.

Bobby reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a crumpled page of newspaper, unfolding it and lying it on the table in front of Sam.

“'Murder victim identified, no leads'. Paula Chambers, missing from Florida since May 2007,” Sam read. There was a picture of Ruby, wearing a smile sweeter than any he'd seen the demon use. He touched it softly. “I never knew her real name.”

“I was tracking demonic omens in Battle Creek, Michigan, when I found the story. Found shot in the head. They said it looked like an execution, nobody could work out why.”

“I thought there was a bullet missing from the Colt,” Sam said. “I never asked Dean about it, I forgot.”

“He never did like her,” Bobby said. “Doesn't matter now. That poor girl's at rest.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. That day Dean had gone off on his own; Sam had thought there was something off about him but he'd been so wrapped up with The Life of Jonathan Strange, with a new way to save Dean, he hadn't even realised Dean was out there killing one of his only other chances. He wondered what her plan had been, whether she would have turned up to pull off a last minute save after all. But Bobby was right, it didn't matter now. Dean had hated her plans for Sam enough to put an end to it. Sam knew it was wrong but he felt sorrier for Dean, who had argued with Sam so hard against killing hosts to kill the demon, dealing alone with what he would have seen as more blood on his hands.

Dean had done everything for Sam. Thirty-nine and a half hours he'd been below now. Sam had to snap out of this and start working out how he was going to help his brother.

They left, Bobby tucking the article back away. He followed Sam over to the car and watched him get in, then he frowned and motioned for Sam to wind the window down.

“Sam, what the hell are you doing in there? You can't drive like that. Move the seat and the mirrors.”

“Dean likes them like this,” Sam explained patiently. “He complains when I move them.”

An expression of utter dismay crossed Bobby's face. “Sam... come on, son. You know that's not right. He's not coming back. You need to move the seats, come on now.”

“I'm not stupid, Bobby, and I haven't cracked up,” Sam said. “I was always prepared for it to come to this.”

“Come to what?” Bobby said. If Sam hadn't known better, he would have said Bobby looked afraid.

“To going and getting him,” Sam said. “Can we go? We're burning daylight.” He turned the key in the ignition and revved the car purposefully. Bobby stood next to it for a minute, and then went over to the truck and got in. This time Sam peeled out first.

* * *

Sam drove as long as he could before finding a motel and driving in. They were about halfway into Nebraska. They could probably make Bobby's yard by the end of the next day, but Sam wasn't sure that was where he needed to go.

Bobby came up and knocked on the window again. He looked drawn. “I'll go in and get us a couple rooms,” he said.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Thanks.” He knew what Bobby was asking, but he didn't need a babysitter. He needed a room and time to himself. He'd had plenty of time to think in the car, now that his purpose had reasserted itself. He knew what he was doing tonight and it wasn't sitting around reassuring Bobby he wasn't going to top himself.

He grabbed his bag out of the trunk. He hesitated when he saw Dean's, bulging just like always and stowed at the back so it wouldn't roll. Dean had packed like he was just going away for a little while, and Sam touched the bag and silently promised him he was right. Nothing else was acceptable but that he get Dean out, it was that simple.

Bobby came out of the office and came over to Sam. He hesitated before handing over the key.

“Sam, what you said back in that lot, about going and getting Dean.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quickly. “I guess, I had this idea... but he made me promise him, you know? To get back on with life. I think, just, maybe you were right, it was too soon for me to be driving.” He filled his expression with as much grief and innocence as he could.

Bobby didn't look entirely convinced but Sam could tell how much he wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, didn't want to think the last surviving Winchester was wasting everything by going stark raving crazy. “Okay, Sam. You want to go for food?”

“No, I'm okay,” Sam said. He tried to remember how to smile. “I'll get delivery. I'm pretty tired.”

“I bet,” Bobby said. “Back tomorrow, if that damn hound hasn't torn the place apart while I was gone. You know you're welcome to stay with me as long as you want, Sam.”

“Yeah. I don't know, I might get back on the circuit,” Sam said.

“On your own?” Bobby said, his concern becoming open. “Already?”

Sam shrugged. “He wanted me to.”

“Yeah, but...”

“It's not like we didn't know this was coming,” Sam said, gently but firmly. He shouldered his bag and went into his room, leaving Bobby gaping behind him. He hoped Bobby would put it down to tiredness and loss and leave him to deal with things alone that night. He'd thought Bobby might help him, but his face when Sam raised the possibility had been horror-stricken, like Sam was unnatural and wrong for even considering it. Sam didn't know what was wrong with him; did he think Dean deserved to have to stay down there forever? What else was Sam supposed to do?

Bobby had got adjoining rooms and the walls were paper thin, fucking cheap builds. Sam was going to have to wait until he fell asleep. Dean had never mentioned anything about Sam's sleep the night he summoned Catherine of Winchester, but that didn't mean he hadn't slept through something Bobby would hear just fine.

He pulled the silver bowl out from his bag. The silver was already dull and fingerprinted, beginning to tarnish where it had picked up a couple of dents. It would do. The spell – the blood and the memories – was going to be more of a courtesy than anything. Jackie Blackstone had proved the props weren't necessary, but she'd been kind to him once already and he needed her at her most helpful.

He lay on the bed, deliberately choosing an uncomfortable position so he wouldn't fall asleep. Still and quiet, without something to distract him, he couldn't help feeling Dean's absence as a dull physical ache in his chest. Dean should have been breathing steadily in the next bed, or clattering in the bathroom. Being in a motel room alone felt wrong on some fundamental level; motels were for family, shoved in almost stiflingly close, frustrating and comforting. He felt himself start to cry, helplessly, and tried to keep it quiet. He could tell himself he was going to get Dean back or die trying, and he knew he was – but on the same deep level he knew that now, this moment, he was an orphan, and his big brother was gone, and he was completely alone in the world.

Without meaning to, he curled around the pillow and his broken heart, and cried himself to sleep.

When he woke up, he sat straight up out of his body and looked into Catherine of Winchester's solemn face, sitting on his bed.

“What...” he said, disoriented and confused. “You're here. You're here? I didn't do the spell.”

“You didn't, but I am here,” she said. “I told you of your power, Sam, and I see you have found it since our meeting. You wanted to see me – intended to send for me – and I heard your call and I have come.”

He looked behind and down at his face in repose. Even asleep, the grief of the last few days was written starkly on his face, tear-stained and tense. It was a welcome break, like he'd left his tragedy with his body; he still missed Dean terribly, but he couldn't feel it through his whole self any more.

“I would like to pass on my condolences over your brother,” she said. “This is a difficult time for you. May I assume the fairy race were of no use?”

“No,” Sam said. “He came, Jackie Blackstone. But he said he could only delay the deal, not break it, by taking Dean to Faery. I couldn't – he wouldn't have been able to live like that.”

“Then you made a brave decision,” she said. “I trust it will give you strength, in the years to come.”

“It won't have to,” Sam said fiercely. “This isn't over. I know where he is and I know where there's a gate to hell, one I can open. I'm going to bring him back. I wanted to call you tonight for your help.”

“Sam,” she said. She looked at him, not concerned like Bobby had, although he thought perhaps she was, but cool and assessing. “No doubt you are aware that that is a particularly difficult, dangerous and stupid undertaking?”

He laughed, brittle and harsh. “Yeah, I'm aware. But you told me summoning fairies was dangerous and I managed that.”

“Not quite. Summoning fairies can go badly, but there is no harm in a strong magician's being confident that he, or she, can overpower them. Even in Faery, in their own land, a magician may triumph. To journey to Hell is not the same magnitude. The strongest demons reside there, consolidating their power, demons that have never walked the earth at the same time as humankind. A magician must be extremely sure of himself to venture into Hell, and even then he may expect only to walk in, not to return. Not as who he was when he went in.”

“That's fine,” Sam said. “I have nothing to lose.”

“You have yourself,” she countered.

“I don't really,” Sam said. “Not without my brother to tell me who that is.”

“That is sentimental, and unworthy of your intelligence,” she said scornfully. “What use is a brother who is only a shadow?”

“I've lost him and it's how I feel,” Sam said. “Sorry if that pisses you off but I don't care. Can you help me or not?”

“I can't,” she said haughtily. “I visited Hell only once. The journey nearly killed me, and I did not make it alone.”

“Who did you make it with?” Sam said impatiently.

“My teacher.”

“That's Uskglass, isn't it? There's something about him, and hell. You said it, he had a kingdom on the other side of hell. And he visited there?” Sam said eagerly.

“He does,” she admitted. “The kingdom is called Agrace, and it is said that the lease is held by Lucifer himself.”

“You talk about him in the present,” Sam said slowly. “I didn't realise... but you did it last time too. Uskglass is still alive? But not on earth. You said he abandoned England.”

“He lives,” she said, the confession seeming drawn from her.

“Will he help me?” Sam said. He wasn't breathing, exactly, but he held it anyway.

“He may,” she said quietly. “Sam, please understand. John Uskglass was human, but brought up in a fairy court to be the greatest magician England and the world has ever seen. He became powerful and immortal, and took to directing human affairs. He allied with fairies, angels, demons alike, and his sympathies cannot be predicted, nor depended upon.”

“Tell me how to find him,” Sam pleaded.

She shut her eyes briefly. “You must journey to Agrace. He spends much of his time there, although I don't know that he is there now, or will be again during your lifetime.”

“How can I get there?”

“By the fairy roads. I don't know how to find them in your country. Follow the paths of the dead, the places of nature and wildness; as when you summoned my servant, you must use your connection to the land, and make your needs known to it. From them you can reach his roads, the King's Roads. I cannot tell you the way any more than that. The Roads fit themselves to the traveller.”

“And when I get there?” Sam said.

“Be respectful,” she said, her gaze grave. “Do not linger past your welcome, for it is his protection. Ask him only for what you cannot do without.”

“I can do that,” Sam said. “Anything else?”

“Do not summon me again,” she said. “This path is not wise, Sam Winchester. Hell is used to our small human feelings, and it does not care for them. Do not imagine your brother is already victim of all the harm they can imagine. And do not make me regret ever showing your power to you.”

He smiled at her. “I'll be sorry not to see you again, Catherine. Thank you for your information.”

She nodded curtly and disappeared. He lay back into his body and breathed into sleep.

Sam got up early and listened carefully until he was sure Bobby was still asleep. Then he shoved a note under the door and got in the car, heading south-east. He drove for about an hour then pulled in at a diner, shovelling breakfast down for strength while he wrote down Catherine's information and checked a couple of things in The Life of Jonathan Strange. He regretted her attitude: she'd been a useful source and good to talk to besides, but she was dead, had been for hundreds of years. He supposed he couldn't really expect her to remember what it was to love, to feel yourself so wrapped up with somebody that you weren't sure how to be in a world where they weren't.

Once he was sure he'd reproduced everything she'd told him he got back on the road. He didn't know if Bobby might be chasing him, and in any case every minute he wasted from now on was a minute Dean was in hell when he maybe didn't have to be. It was fifty-seven hours now. It was weird, having spent so long dreading the countdown, to now be so aware of the figures climbing, time always passing him by faster than he could use it.

He was in Nebraska now. He could get to and through Kansas in the day. He'd have to travel the fairy road by night; Route 66 in Kansas was still in use, under different names, but he was prepared to bet Dean's life that America still remembered it was there.

* * *

Only thirteen miles of the historical Route 66 had cut through the corner of Kansas. There were wilder and emptier parts of what had once been called the Mother Road, the first highway to cross the country and take families and men to seek their futures, sinking deep into their spirits and America's sense of herself. But Sam knew what Dean had meant now, why he'd chosen a tiny backwoods part of their home state to leave from. Dean didn't have happy memories there, and Sam had none at all, but America was about where you were going, and so it was also about where you left from. It seemed right for Sam to use Route 66 as a fairy road, and from Kansas, and following his instincts had worked for him well with English magic so far.

He wasn't at a hundred per cent yet, shaky and sluggish. He knew he was tall, but what the hell had Dean given him, horse tranquillizer? But he was used to pushing through, making it not matter that he wasn't at his best because only his best was good enough. If there wasn't time to rest up properly after a hunt because there were people dying someplace else, he definitely wasn't going to coddle himself when it was his own brother. He nibbled on fruit and breakfast bars during the day, made sure he kept hydrated, pulled over for five minute power naps when he really couldn't go on. He thought hard about what he was going to say to John Uskglass, the arguments he was going to make for help, and not about what help he needed. It was still unpleasant to be in the car alone.

He hit the vicinity late. Night had fallen but there were still cars on the roads. He found a motel that paid by the hour, dirty and probably rat-infested, but he was only paying for two hours and he didn't even intend to take his shoes off so he didn't much care. He didn't go to Route 66 yet, feeling absurdly like he'd jinx himself, like there was already a time for everything and he had to wait for things to be exactly right.

He slept for a couple of hours and woke pleasantly refreshed. He wasn't about to eat anywhere near that motel but he drove away and found a pizza place, ate six slices standing in the shop. Then he filled the car with gas, grabbing a couple of containers and filling them with spare as an afterthought. He bought food and water to keep with him; he didn't know if there was food in Faery, and if there was he didn't know if he should eat it. (He was beginning to have his suspicions about fairy-spirits and ancient gods, and he couldn't help but think of Persephone and the pomegranate seeds.) He didn't know quite what the hell he was thinking, with the car, but it had helped his magic once before, with the fairy, he didn't want to just dump it, and anyway this was a road. Again, it felt right to take her with him.

Eventually he was ready. He climbed into the car and settled himself, slipping his fingers into the grooves he imagined Dean had worn into the wheel. It took a little more driving before he was on the slip for KS-66, the modern highway that followed the beginning of Route 66 out of Missouri. He pulled over for a second and idled, the Impala answering smooth and steady under his hands. The roads were quiet, cars going past only every few minutes. It was nearly midnight.

It felt like an anticlimax, somehow. He was about to step into Faery, where maybe no human had gone for hundreds of years. Certainly he doubted it had ever occurred to anyone to use Route 66 as a way onto a fairy road. And it was just foot to the gas pedal, same as he'd done hundreds of times before.

At this point it had to work, everything, going into Faery, getting to hell, bringing Dean. There was simply no other option. If he left the car to rust in Faery Dean would climb out of hell himself to kill him.

He put the car in gear and got on the road. He started calling his power, setting his protection and going gently at first, thinking of the other times he'd done it. The car under him, reassuringly solid, built with American steel and expertise and Dean's love. The road under her, the thousands of people who'd followed her path years before him. Where it started and finished, the scenery it covered, lush greenery fading to dust bowl, the hundreds of towns littering the route, alive and tired. He was passing the historical buildings, Phillips 66 gas station, he thought of their history, the American dream they'd trusted in so faithfully, he was on the curve still marked on their maps as Old US Highway 66, foot leaden, the blue power snapping around him and the car and onto the road and the ruined Twilight drive-in flared with black energy and he was off the curve of 66 and onto a road he'd never seen the like of in the whole country, coasting into Faery.

* * *

Sam wasn't really sure what to do. Was it safe to get out of the car? He wanted to, get out and look around, get the feel of the place, but he wasn't sure it would be smart. The land around him looked gloomy, in some midspace between night and day, a simple dirt road stretching out ahead, bordered by scrub and the occasional twisted tree. It felt – malevolent, like the ground could rise up at any moment and throw him away from itself. He could feel the car humming around him, and although the iron was palpably dampening his power, here in Faery, he thought it was protecting him, too. The land didn't know it, and was afraid.

He drove on at a crawl. He didn't know where he needed to go, but in any case there was only one road. When he looked behind him it stretched back, deadly straight, for miles; there was no sign of Route 66 or Kansas.

Okay. Straight on 'til morning, then.

At times it felt like he was only going on by force of will, carrying the car with him. He didn't know how long he'd been on the road. The clock was frozen just past midnight, the time he'd left his own familiar roads. There was no sun and no moon; apparently just the dusky foggy landscape, unchanging and flat. He couldn't help letting it lull him near-catatonic, just himself and the road, his foot locked to the gas and his hands heavy on the wheel.

Suddenly the tape deck blasted on, AC/DC echoing loud and demanding around the car, and that was when he found himself with the door open and his foot halfway to the ground. He snatched it back and scrambled across the seat, his heart pounding and sweat breaking into a sheen on his skin. The music snapped off, and the dead silence was broken by the faint, insistent sounds of fairy music, somewhere off road. The car was pulled over to the side haphazardly. Sam had been going to abandon it and walk into the scrub, and he would certainly never have found his way back to it; in the identical landscape he would have been lost very quickly, looking for the fairy circle until he lay down and died for want of water. He took a deep breath and shifted slowly back in front of the wheel, resting his hands on it for reassurance and petting slowly. He wasn't going to think about how the tape had come on at exactly the right moment. It had helped. He had enough to worry about that wanted to harm him.

He reached for the ignition but it wouldn't turn on. That was when he realised.

He wasn't at the side of the road at all. He was one of the angles of a crossroads. His trembling fingers worked on the ignition this time, and he reversed, carefully, until he was dead centre of it. He rolled down the window and waited.

It didn't take long for her to appear, in the same form he'd killed her in.

“Hello, Sammy,” the crossroads demon purred and her eyes flashed red.

“Don't try it,” he said. “The crossroads demon is dead, I'm sure of that. You're a fairy.”

It laughed and dissolved into another dark-haired girl, just as beautiful, its eyes holding the otherworldly gleam. “You are a clever boy. Didn't you want to come to our party?”

“No.”

“Oh, Sam,” it slinked closer to the car and Sam noted the exact point it stopped, how close it was willing to get to the car. “Why come to Faery if not to spend time with us? Come out of that nasty thing. Can't you feel your power, waiting to come to us?”

“How do I get to Agrace?” he said. He looked out of the windshield, ignoring her at his side.

“I know of no Agrace,” she said.

“The third kingdom of the Raven King,” he said steadily. “On the other side of hell.”

“Oh! You mean-” and it said something in a light musical language Sam had never heard before. “But you don't want to go there, lovely boy. It's a grim, horrible place. Several of my cousins have been in service there. All is work and magic and books. Come to our party. It isn't far.”

He changed tack. “That form you came in. The crossroads demon. How did you know about it?”

It laughed, with a note of forced gaiety. “Why, I saw it in you.”

“Did you see this?” and he pointed the Colt at its head, out of the window, steady and unerring. It fell back, its beauty beginning to lose focus.

“You can't have that here,” it said, choked-off. “Please, let me go.”

“Tell me how to get to Agrace.”

“You must... think of it, think of him. Entrances to his roads are all over Faery. You must wait until you see him.”

“What do you mean, see him? I won't see him if I'm not in his kingdom,” Sam said angrily. “Talk sense.”

“I don't know,” it said desperately. “My people do not travel his roads. We only know that they are where he is seen.” It looked afraid.

Sam brought the Colt back into the car in disgust.

“Fine, go. But hey!” He yelled after it as it turned to flee. “You tell any of your people you see to stay away from me. Don't waste my time like this again.”

It was gone. Sam turned on the car and drove on; the road was straight.

Sam kept driving, but now he thought about John Uskglass. The Life of Jonathan Strange had a reverent tone towards him, like it was afraid any mention was giving too much away. Catherine had spoken of him with affection and the rights of personal familiarity, but still respectful, maybe even a little more in awe because she knew him and what he was capable of. The most irreverence came from the fairies but that didn't matter: they'd served him, flocked to him in numbers, letting him use their power. That said more about him than the tone they took.

John wouldn't have been happy. He was in a strange land that he wasn't exactly sure how he'd got to and didn't know how to leave, going to see a man of unknown and possibly practically limitless powers. John Uskglass might have been human once but evidently no longer, and Sam didn't know what he was now or how to kill him.

Not that he was thinking of killing him (he thought carefully, in case the land could read his mind). All his research, and this was the only person he'd found who might be able to help Dean; this was an appeal, so far as he could tell, to the top. But it felt weird to be going into something so like a hunt so little armed. He refused to think Uskglass might not be there. He had to be.

This wasn't helping. He needed to concentrate on Uskglass' presence, not stress out about why he needed to find him. He thought about the scant knowledge he had of the man himself. He was a king, so he was used to power, and a magician, so he was wilful. He'd balanced three kingdoms and defended his people fiercely against all comers; they'd still loved him three hundred years after he'd left Northern England. He'd chosen ravens as his totem, a species that as a group was called an unkindness, so he wasn't gentle and he wouldn't do favours... but ravens were also called a storytelling, so he could be convinced, if Sam was smart and sharp enough. He'd run a court of fairies for hundreds of years, and maybe bargained with the devil, so he was crafty and used to intrigue and he would have made plans on plans on plans.

Sam could only conclude one thing: Uskglass knew perfectly well that Sam was coming and if he let Sam find him at all it meant Sam and Dean had a chance.

Almost as soon as he thought it the road ahead split into two. Sam knew he'd seen it happen – the road had been straight and flat for miles ahead – but that knowledge warred with the memory that there had always been a branch there and it had only taken his eyes some little time to catch up.

One road headed off into the scrub. The other was lost in fog, but it was gated, a simple white-painted gate hanging off the latch, with a raven sitting on it and looking at Sam.

That was pretty clear. Sam opened the door and hesitated. Did that mean it was safe to leave the car now? When did Uskglass' protection start? Maybe this was a test. He stayed in the car and pressed forward and the gate swung silently open for him, the fog clearing. He paused and touched the post as he went through. He didn't know how he'd mistaken it for painted; it was ivory, cool and hard under his fingers, elaborately carved with the figure of a man, circlet on his brow and a raven on his shoulder.

The land changed as soon as the car was through. Now it was good American tarmac, fields high with corn on either side, straight to the horizon. There was a house in the distance, painted blue. It was familiar. Sam racked his brains until he remembered: this was a stretch of highway in Ohio and it was where Dean had taught him to drive. Up in the distance roads branched off it, although that wasn't how Sam remembered it.

He was pretty sure he was safe now. He got out of the car to stretch and blinked as the roads totally rearranged themselves around him. Outside the car – he couldn't see it now but when he put out his hands blindly the familiar shape was there, engine cooling and ticking like a pulse under his searching fingers – he was in a library, old and sweetly book-smelling, endless tall mahogany stacks reaching up to an elegantly sweeping dome. Where the roads had branched off now aisles of books split from the main corridor, dimly lit and promising.

Sam hesitated for a moment, torn between keeping his hands on the car and getting a closer look at the shelves, then couldn't keep himself away, taking one deliberate step so he could squint and read a couple of titles. They looked real, leather bindings cracked and used-looking. He recognised some of the titles as ones Segundus mentioned in the book. He longed to reach out and take one, open it up, but forestalled himself. Who knew what protections a magician might put on his library? He needed to get going. Books weren't a replacement for meeting the living magician who owned them. These were Uskglass' roads, and he'd let Sam onto them.

When he got back into the car the books faded. It felt like he was seeing both, the library overlaid faintly onto the roads, but that neither were bothering with the formality of passing through his optic nerve. When he slammed the door it was only the roads again, although he was conscious of the library being there, just out of the corner of his eye, like if he turned fast enough he'd catch it.

Catherine had said the roads would fit themselves to the traveller. So he had two versions, what did that mean? The library was obviously his, it was what he saw when he stood alone. When he was in the car – okay, roads. He couldn't drive through a library. So that meant he and the car had a version of their own, maybe, like it counted as another traveller. He figured that was fair enough; the car had enough of Dean's, of all of their sweat, blood and tears in her to practically have a personality. So the Roads that were roads, they were for Winchesters. He liked that, and for a second it was like he could hear Dean crowing about how cool it was behind him.

He was more aware of time passing in the King's Roads, had the happy feeling he was actually getting somewhere. The road seemed to know where it was going, the other branches looking insubstantial when he passed them, and he decided to trust it rather than dwell on the fact that he didn't have much choice in the matter. He kept the name Agrace firmly in his mind, although it was the one thing he didn't have a visualisation for or even much idea about: what should he expect from a kingdom near Faery and on the other side of hell? He could only picture a sort of Ren Fayre knock-off and so tried not to in case it somehow delayed his progress.

He reached a border eventually. The Ohio fields cut off, leading directly to a bridge over a wide, still river that curved glassily away in both directions. There was a tower on the other side, old stone and formidable, ivy winding up the sides. It was flying a flag, a white background with a black bird flying on it. A raven, presumably. 'John Uskglass is in'.

He'd made it to Agrace.

A man was sitting on the other side of the bridge in a stripy folding deckchair. He came over as Sam inched over the bridge (it didn't look like it had ever anticipated a several-ton car) and leaned in to look at Sam. He was pale with very dark hair, quite slight and graceful. He looked serene.

“So this is one of those motor vehicles, is it? Singular.”

“Hello, John,” Sam said calmly. The Raven King smiled at him. “I saw you once on a tarot card.”

“Oh yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I remember that magic. Long time ago, I must have forgotten to cancel it.” He said it the way Sam would have said 'forgot to cancel the newspapers'.

“Oh,” Sam said. The man was unnerving. He didn't have a clue how to begin, and he suspected it didn't matter if he did; Uskglass knew exactly how this conversation was going to go and Sam had only to mouth the words.

“Right then,” Uskglass said briskly. He walked around to the passenger side and stared at the door. A minute or two passed. He touched it gingerly, and then Sam reached over and opened it.

“Thank you,” he said, getting in. “The road will show you where to go.” He shifted, settling himself into the seat. Sam was fleetingly reminded of Jackie Blackstone, how it'd held its poise in the iron cage.

“What road... oh,” Sam said. There was a road, serviceable grey paving. He could still see the rough ground it had been moments before but trying to focus on the illusion made his eyes water. He put the car in gear and rolled forward. The tires seemed to find the road real enough.

“Where are we going?” he ventured after a while. Uskglass had worked out how to get the window down and he was breathing in the rushing air with every appearance of enjoyment, eyes shut.

“To the border Agrace shares with hell,” Uskglass said. “That's why you've come, I think? I've been waiting for you, Sam.”

“Okay,” Sam said, pushing down the instinctive distrust at his words. “Catherine of Winchester, she told you about me?”

“No. Catherine hasn't been able to get to Agrace in a very long time. It was her shade you summoned?”

“Catherine of Winchester, yeah.”

“The shade is not the person, Sam,” he corrected gently. “Catherine is dead. Granted, magicians tend to retain a little more personality than most, but they are not who they were. What language did she speak to you?”

“English,” Sam said, reluctantly. “A sort of Regency English, I guess.” And he had thought it weird at the time, but not enough to let himself question what he'd summoned, what he'd got.

“To my knowledge, Catherine never learned English of any kind,” Uskglass said dryly. “She spoke a Northern dialect, French and Latin. You read of her in a Regency period text?”

“Yes,” Sam said, confusion mixing with despair. Uskglass seemed to be implying that Catherine – whatever of Catherine he'd met – hadn't been real or reliable. But he'd summoned fairies, travelled to Faery, found Uskglass, all on her advice. It had come from somewhere.

“Tell me,” Uskglass said, his gaze fastened on Sam, “what do you know of the theory of magic regarding intent?”

The car was dead silent. Sam suddenly knew, deep into his bones, everything else had been play; he had one chance to here to hold Uskglass' interest. If he didn't pull it off, he would drive Agrace for the same eternity Dean spent in hell.

“That it's all that matters,” Sam said slowly. “Magic is the act of imposing one's will on the world. Like you did just now, putting a road through Agrace when you needed it.”

Uskglass smiled; it was like the car, the landscape, everything let out a breath and relaxed. “An intelligent example. Not quite all that matters, but yes, essentially.”

“So you're saying, what, I created Catherine of Winchester?” Sam said, trying to sound politely inquisitive rather than demanding. “She told me things. About you, fairies, English magic. Things I couldn't have made up on my own, and they turned out to be right.”

“I don't mean to say that,” Uskglass said. “I am pointing out that you needed information and you brought it to yourself in a form you could use: in a woman you could summon, and who came speaking a language you could understand.” He smiled again, inscrutable and annoying. “As you have done, in no small measure, with myself also.”

“I was just... scrambling around,” Sam said, then saw his opportunity to start talking about what he wanted to talk about. This technical stuff was fine, and under any other circumstances he would have been very interested, but time passed weird here; he had no idea how long Dean had been stuck in hell by now. “I was desperate. My brother-”

“But that is excellent!” Uskglass exclaimed. “You, Jonathan Strange whose Life you read. Me. Self-taught magicians are how the craft moves forward.” He looked at Sam piercingly. “They are how Ages of magic begin.”

“I'm not a self-taught magician,” Sam said firmly. “I'm doing this to get my brother back and once I've got him I'm not going to do it again.”

“Are you sure?” he said softly. Sam had the sensation of ravens filling the car, although he couldn't see them. John Uskglass was bathed in a strange light, his power gathered lightly around him, ethereal and exotic. Sam felt reflexively for his; the little blue wellspring he could feel somewhere in his centre shivered. Uskglass smiled as if he could feel it, too. “You have power, Sam. Raw, yes, but a great deal of it. I could make you a king in a Faery realm. I need good men about me.”

Sam didn't have to think about it. “No. I appreciate the honour. But I just want my brother.”

There was a moment of danger. Then Uskglass inclined his head briefly and it was past.

“Of course. I don't have to tell you that you have set yourself a dangerous course of action?”

“No, everybody else already has,” Sam said. “I came to you to make it less dangerous. Catherine believed this place was leased from Lucifer personally and my book talked about how you dealt with angels and demons. I need you to help me get Dean back.”

“By your wits,” Uskglass said. “There is no more trick to it than that. I can guarantee you a safe entrance and an audience, no more.”

“That's fine,” Sam said, keeping his tone strong. He pretended to concentrate on the road, although it was unfolding straight before him, same as ever. The scenery was almost familiar. It looked like photos and films Sam had seen of the English moors, under an expansive grey sky, all subtly wrong, like a spot the difference picture with only the last, most difficult difference left uncircled.

“And there is the question of what I will get in return,” Uskglass said mildly.

It wasn't only the demons Sam needed his wits to deal with, he knew. He nodded. “Okay. What do you want?”

“I want the gun that killed the demon Azazel,” Uskglass said smoothly.

“What for?” Sam said suspiciously. “I mean – sorry. But that demon wrecked my family, got me into this in the first place. I need to know you don't want to use it to, to resurrect him or something.”

Uskglass laughed. “No, Sam, don't worry. I owe Azazel and his kin no such favours, if such a thing were even possible. That gun is a powerful magical object, of a kind that fairy magic cannot create.”

“Because it's iron,” Sam said, understanding. “And if fairy magic can't make it, neither can English magic?”

“I'm not sure about this English magic you keep referring to,” Uskglass said. “There is my magic, which I gave to England. Perhaps it is that.”

“Well, whatever,” Sam said. “I'm right? About the iron?”

“Of course. May I press you for an answer? We will be at the border shortly.”

Sam knew he was going to let Uskglass have the Colt. It seemed right, in a way. His dad had started the whole thing by letting the demon have the Colt in return for Dean's life and Sam would finish it by giving it to Uskglass, for the same. But he hesitated, instinctively playing for the most knowledge he could get. Uskglass had already given the oblique warning: use his wits.

“What will you use it for? I just don't know if it's really mine to give, you know? It could do a lot of good for the whole hunting community, the whole world.”

“I might never use it at all,” Uskglass said. He looked out of his side window, and Sam saw through the deliberate act of unconcern; it was a reflection of his own. “I want it to keep. Against the future. You may rest assured that the good of the 'whole world' is also in my thoughts.”

“I have a request,” Sam said.

“Yes?”

“I want to know how long my brother's been in hell and I want you to show me him there.”

Uskglass' brow furrowed. “For the first... there is not time in hell, precisely. I can tell you that you have been in Faery and Agrace for the equivalent of six days. Does that sufficiently answer your question?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said. If he'd been gone six days, Dean had been in hell nearly ten. But what did that mean, there wasn't time in hell? There had to be something: they weren't frozen down there, one moment ticked over into the next. Maybe he meant there wasn't day and night, it wasn't measurable in a way that could be communicated. That could mean Dean felt like he'd been there hundreds, thousands of years.

No, he wasn't thinking about that. Dean was strong. Dad had survived hell, been enough himself to play his part in killing the demon and give Dean the goodbye he'd needed so desperately. Dean might not be exactly the same but he was Sam's brother; anything would be enough.

He recollected himself. “And can you show him to me?”

“I can,” Uskglass said. “Are you sure you wish to see?”

Sam nodded, a quick jerk before he could think better of it. Uskglass sighed and waved a hand. The windshield dissolved into a scene; Sam yelled and braked sharply. The car skidded to a halt and Sam leaned forward, heart racing from more than the emergency stop.

Dean was there. He seemed to be sitting in a room, a plain empty room. Nobody else was there. Sam's gaze ran over him greedily; no injuries that he could see. Dean looked intact. Then Sam's look got to his face and he breathed in a small hurt gasp. Dean looked wrecked, his face a mask of utter intense misery; there were tearstains down his face and his eyes were puffy and red, as if he'd been crying for a long time without comfort.

“You expected torture?” Uskglass said, and Sam hated him for seeing Dean like this, seeing them like this. “He sits. I believe occasionally he is visited by demons in your guise, or your father's, and they talk to him for some small time before leaving again. Hell means to break your brother, Sam, not hurt him.”

“Hey,” Sam said.

“Though no doubt they will find some entertainment in his physical agony eventually,” Uskglass went on remorselessly, “when his mind is enough gone for his misery not to be fun, although I imagine he will retain enough to remember that the horror of his situation is somehow connected to you-”

“Okay, God!” Sam shouted. “Shut up, just shut up. You can have the Colt, I would have agreed anyway.”

He felt sick. He had imagined torture, of course he had. What Meg had said about hell, other demons, all the lore he'd ever read – hell was pain. But Dean had plenty of physical courage and he wasn't afraid of being hurt. He was afraid of being alone, of Sam and John hating him, of not being needed. They were right; it would break him.

Uskglass smiled. “Thank you, Sam. I appreciate that. We've reached the border.”

“Good,” Sam said bitterly. “Get the fuck out my car.”

Uskglass did. Sam reached into the glove compartment and got out the Colt. He took a moment to rub his fingers over the symbols carved into it, saying a silent goodbye. The Colt had done a lot for them, all things considered.

He got out of the car to hand it over, and looked upon Hell.

The road was black and sticky-looking, rubble at the sides. It seemed to absorb light but there was no warmth to it. Sam followed it with his gaze, dread and horror spilling into him through the pores of his skin as he looked. It opened out to a wasteland of blood and bone. What he assumed were trees were hidden behind nooses and bodies, hundreds draping each one; there was no water or cleanness or life anywhere.

“I've arranged a guide for you,” Uskglass said. He didn't sound affected at all, but then he wouldn't; it was his fucking backyard. “So if you could kindly give me the gun, we can conclude our business.”

Sam thrust it at him. There was no way he wanted to go any nearer to that godforsaken place, but he had to. He reminded himself that Dean was there, and let it overcome his natural recoil.

“Thank you,” Uskglass said sincerely. “It has been a pleasure and an education, Sam.”

“Yeah, you too,” Sam said sourly, and then Uskglass surprised him by taking his forearm, clasping it. Sam clasped his back, feeling awkward.

“Take care,” Uskglass said. “Remember your wits, no matter the provocation. It would be a shame to lose you now.”

“Okay,” Sam said, disconcerted. Their gazes met for a second and then Uskglass let go and turned away. A woman was coming towards them on the road, out of Hell.

“I think you know Marion Edwards,” Uskglass said, and then, to the woman, “he has an appointment in Hell. Please see that he makes it.”

Sam stared at her in consternation – how the hell had he known? - and when he looked back Uskglass was gone, without ceremony or leavetaking.

“Hi,” he tried. “I'm Sam.”

“Let's get on with this, shall we?” she snapped, and put herself in the passenger seat.

Sam got in the car and thought hard about what this was going to do to the undercarriage instead of anything else at all.

“I did want cremation, actually,” she said after a while of silence. “I don't know why my mother didn't know that. So I suppose I have something to thank you for.”

“That's okay,” Sam managed. He'd never had a salt and burn thank him for the privilege before, and to his surprise it was almost the weirdest and most upsetting experience he'd had in Faery yet. “So you're-” he started, aiming for politeness, and then stopped, no clue what he'd been planning to say. You're in Hell now, how's it going? You're a murderer, do you enjoy that?

“In Hell, yes,” she said. “I don't really want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he said. “Um. Why did you. Sorry.”

“Good old-fashioned undiagnosed mental illness,” she said. “If only I'd had better health insurance, but we were very healthy and we had a big mortgage. I thought David was evil, so I killed him before he killed me. And now here we are, on the road of good intentions.”

“The road of good intentions?” Sam said doubtfully.

“Oh, yes. I'm sure you know the saying. Hell gets a lot from people. I'm told they redecorated extensively after Dante's Inferno. And thus, your brother's private hell. Uskglass told me about you,” she explained off his look.

“You're pretty talkative about... why you're in Hell,” Sam said.

“It doesn't feel like it was me,” she said simply. “I know I'm here now, though.” He tried not to see her shudder reflexively.

She sat up straighter in her seat. “We're here. Pull over.”

“I'm not pulling over here,” Sam snapped.

She smiled at him slyly. “Why not?”

He went to gesture at Hell outside, and then stopped, confused. He pulled over into the lot of a normal diner, same as any one of a thousand he'd seen before. There was one other car in the lot; an Aston Martin, gleaming black.

“This is your scene,” she said quietly. “That's part of Uskglass' arrangement on your behalf. Your appointment is with Beelzebub, representing Lucifer's interests. You need to be very careful.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, tearing his eyes away from the diner and turning to look at her. She was gone.

He took a second to think. Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, commonly taken to be a second of Lucifer's; highly ranked in Hell, at the very least. He supposed it was a mark of respect to Uskglass, that he was dealing with this personally, but it was going to make Sam's life difficult. He had to be absolutely on form; the tiniest of mistakes and he was in Hell himself, or extinguished completely.

This was what it came down to: him, and the thought of his brother to carry him through.

He got out of the car and walked into the diner with all the purpose he could muster.

* * *

Sam took in the diner with a single glance. The only exit was behind him, as if he could get anywhere if he used it. The tables were Formica, the floor was scuffed. The wall behind the counter had pictures of the staff with regulars. He assumed it had been taken from his memory but – like the landscape of Agrace – something was very slightly off, and it made the whole thing alien and offputting.

Beelzebub was sitting at a table, a cup in front of him and a sheaf of paper. He was tall, dark-haired and blandly handsome, wearing a well-cut black suit and a white shirt. He stood up as Sam entered and gave him a professional smile. His eyes were jet black.

An embodied demon. Sam had only ever heard about them. Couldn't be exorcised, rosary and holy water didn't touch them, ordinary weapons didn't hurt them. They were strong and fast and pretty much invulnerable.

He couldn't help his mouth forming the whisper: “Christo.”

Beelzebub didn't even flinch. He chuckled and said, “Mr. Winchester, please. I had hoped for a civil meeting. I think you know that won't work, and this is, after all, Hell. You might respect your surroundings.”

“Worth a try,” Sam said, summoning up all the charm he'd ever seen John deploy, all the bravado he'd ever seen Dean throw out, and pulling it around himself like a warm cloak.

“Of course, of course,” he said, genial. “Please, take a seat. Coffee?”

Sam shook his head but he slid warily into the booth opposite the demon. He stayed on the outside, legs tensed ready to move him into action. The demon watched him with an ironic smile, then resumed his own seat.

“Right. Samuel Winchester, isn't it... and you're here at the behest of John Uskglass, called the Raven King, called the Black King, etc etc... he hasn't given a reason but we've assumed you've come to ask after your unfortunate brother. Would that be correct?” He shuffled the papers on the table – notes, Sam could see, written in a script that looked burned onto the paper – and gave Sam a smile that was all sharp little teeth.

“I've come to get my brother,” Sam said steadily.

The demon made an exaggerated little expression of confusion. “But Dean Winchester contracted his soul to us for eternity, of his own free will. You admit that it is ours, by right?”

“His soul is his own,” Sam said, considering all his words in a split-second for angles and misunderstandings before he let himself say any of them. “He shouldn't have traded it for my life.”

“Hell doesn't deal in shoulds, Mr. Winchester,” Beelzebub said. He sounded bored. “Should and should not is for the other side. We look at actions. Your brother signed his soul over to us in a fair bargain, in which we have kept our part. I really think that's all there is to be said. Now, if you want to arrange some sort of visitation rights, perhaps we can talk. Say, twenty-four hours, every five years? Maybe that's not reasonable. How long is a mortal lifetime these days?”

“No. I've come to get my brother,” Sam repeated. “I'm going to walk out of here with him, alive and well, in the condition he left me, and you're going to give us safe passage anywhere we want to go.”

“What a charming fantasy,” the demon said. “On the other hand, if you're offering us a deal of your own, Mr. Winchester, then I think we could certainly...”

“No,” Sam said again. “We go, and we're free. Neither of us is going to owe you or Hell or any demon anything, ever again.”

“Out of the kindness of our squishy pink hearts, then,” the demon said. “Really, do you intend to win me over by the moral force of your argument? You have nothing of worth with you to bargain with. You won't make a deal. What are you offering us in return for your brother?”

Sam smiled angelically. He hadn't ever thought this far. When he'd thought about going into Hell it was always with guns blazing, finding his brother and dragging him bodily out of there, not this boardroom crap. But he knew how to drag it back down to his level, and he was suddenly suffused with peace and calm. He trusted this last thing that just seemed right. “I'm offering you a wager.”

“A wager,” Beelzebub said sceptically. “Novel.”

“No, it's practically traditional,” Sam said. “Watch 'The Seventh Seal'. The guy plays chess with Death, that's Azrael. He's one of yours.”

“Well, it's not actively against the rules,” Beelzebub said grudgingly. “Yes, all right. You've made your offer, I will accept.”

“I think...” Sam started but the demon held up his hand to stop him.

“The offer has been accepted. This is over your brother so he'll be brought here to witness proceedings.”

“What?” Sam said. God – if they brought Dean – Sam couldn't pull this off if Dean was there, he'd be too desperate to go to him, talk to him, touch him. He couldn't keep clear if the stakes were right there.

The demon let a slow, mocking smile spread over his face, studying Sam as if he could see the internal struggle. “It is – what did you say? Ah, yes. Traditional. I trust there's no problem?”

“No problem,” Sam said, kicking himself. He silently ordered himself to pull it together, right now. He'd come so far, and any moment he was going to be near his brother again. He wasn't going to fuck it all up now.

“Good,” he said. “Here they are.”

Sam couldn't help spinning around in his seat, even as he thought how stupid it was to put his back to the demon. But it was Dean – if they were really bringing Dean –

It was. And although he showed signs of the Dean Uskglass had shown Sam before, that silent desolate figure, he was also unmistakeably Sam's brother, yelling and pushing back and fighting the demon who'd been sent to bring him, and then he was shoved stumbling into the diner, another demon entering behind him, and he looked up and saw Sam.

His face closed instantly, went hard and watchful. It was like a kick in the gut.

“Dean,” Sam said, out of his chair without conscious thought and going to him, “Dean, it's me, I've come to get you.”

“I've heard that before,” Dean said icily, backing away from Sam like he thought he'd suggested they hug but Sam could see through it, God, he was afraid, “you stay away from me, you demon fuck.”

“Dean,” Sam said again, reaching for him and watching in horror as his brother cringed away, “please, Dean.”

“This is very touching,” the demon behind him, dry and cold; Sam had already forgotten he was there, this was worse than he'd expected. He couldn't think about the demon when Dean was right there so obviously needing him. “But if we might get on? I do have a schedule. Alastor, escort Mr. Winchester to the corner, please. Keep him there and keep him silent.”

Dean went slack and unresisting as the other demon crowded against him, staring at Sam with that lost look, hope maybe just beginning to show under the disbelief. “Sammy? What's – you get away from my brother!” he yelled suddenly, ferociously, throwing himself towards Beelzebub. He was too weak, and too far away besides, but Sam felt a fierce wave of love and fear crash over him.

He moved fast, caught his brother, held him close for one desperate crucial moment. “It's okay, I promise,” he mumbled in his ear. “Dean. Trust me.” He didn't want the other demon to be the one to separate them, so he put Dean away from himself firmly, hands bruisingly tight on his shoulders. “Just go sit. It's okay.”

“Sammy,” Dean said, gaze searching his, and then the other demon had his arm and was guiding him away, not roughly but not gently, either. Sam watched him sink into the chair, gaze fastened on Sam's table. The other demon stood sentry over him, letting him have a view, but it was clear he wouldn't be permitted to move. Sam nodded once, confidently, then turned slowly back to the table and went back to his seat.

“If we're quite ready?” the demon said, mockery and distaste clear in his tone.

“Yeah,” Sam said decisively. He'd been wrong. Having Dean there, having felt him in his arms, was everything, filling him with clear purpose and will. He'd felt his power, forgotten in the depths of Hell, flicker as he and Dean had touched. He remembered Uskglass' words about intent, and fixed his mind on the image on him and Dean, together and safe and strong, walking out of the diner. He could feel his brother staring at him, lending him all the strength and love and faith he'd kept even through Hell.

He was quite ready.

“Poker,” he said casually. “You know about...”

“We have several very good poker players here,” Beelzebub snapped. Sam stored it away; he didn't know what had got to the demon but he'd been rattled. He wasn't as composed as he had been, and Sam liked to think maybe just seeing the Winchester brothers together was enough to make him worry not everything was going to go his way.

“Then we can get straight to it,” Sam said. He thought of something and laid his hands flat on the table, casually, then nudged the power inside him. What had Uskglass said – it wasn't English magic, it was his magic, and he'd called Sam a magician of it. And then Marion: Marion had said to him, like it was throwaway, humans helped make Hell. Oh, Uskglass was clever. He'd given Sam enough rope to hang himself, but he'd given Sam enough to win, as well.

Truth time. He concentrated, feeling them shape under his fingers, formed and drawn and real.

He smiled at Beelzebub, picked up the pack of cards he'd brought into being, here in a little diner in Hell, and started to shuffle. The demon's eyes went a little rounder, that was all, but Sam had been playing poker since he was old enough to count cards and he could read a bluff like a broadsheet.

He could feel Dean's satisfaction and pride. And his fear, always his fear for Sam, but Sam was in his element now. Dean had always praised Sam's poker game, and he'd always said Sam's poker face was scary.

“Five-card draw, one replace, standard hand rankings. My deal. Unless that's a problem?”

“But we haven't discussed stakes,” Beelzebub said thinly. He smirked at Sam without any of his former pretence of affability.

“You know mine,” Sam said. “If I win, I take my brother and we leave, now, together, healthy and whole, get our car, you put us back in America, wherever we tell you, in pristine condition, and beholden to nothing and no-one in Hell or out of it.” He tried to cover every eventuality, every double-cross he could think of. He was pretty sure they'd wriggle out of anything if they could. He had to be specific.

“And if I win?” Beelzebub said.

He caught the demon's gaze and held it, letting his absolute certainty show in his eyes. He smiled, nasty and grim. “Then you get Dean back. And you get me. Double or nothing.”

“Sam, no-” and then a soft gasp, like Dean had been pushed back down into his seat. Sam put it to the back of his mind, continuing to hold the demon's gaze calmly.

The demon broke it first. “The terms will do,” he said. “Deal the cards.”

Sam shuffled again, methodical and thorough, nothing flashy but letting his experience show. Then he dealt, keeping his movements calm and measured.

Five cards in front of him, five in front of the demon. Sam picked his up. Not a strong hand, but not a bad one. He could work with it.

“I would make one comment, about your stake,” the demon remarked.

“Oh?” Sam said. He let his face show polite enquiry.

“What you may or may not owe to John Uskglass is not in our remit,” the demon said earnestly. “You understand, his alliance is only with our lord. Although rather strained at times. Whether you are beholden or not...”

“Thank you for explaining that,” Sam said.

“But of course, perhaps the situation is more that he is beholden to you. You may be aware that two hundred years ago he performed a spell to return his magic to the country of England? Complex undertaking. The spell was two magicians named Norrell and Strange.”

“Yes, I've heard of them,” Sam said.

“What would he do, I wonder, if he decided in his no doubt infinite wisdom that magic ought to be introduced to your America?” the demon mused. “Who might be his spell for that?”

“I really didn't spend enough time with him to speculate,” Sam said neutrally. “Another card or stick?”

“I'll take another, please,” Beelzebub said graciously, throwing one out. “You understand, Mr. Winchester, that I feel you have a right to this information. I understand that John Uskglass seems easy to trust. But he is much like demons, in his way.”

“I didn't think he seemed easy to trust,” Sam said. He dealt the demon another card.

“Of course,” the demon said, trying to sound surprised, coming over smug. “After all, he is the ultimate holder of the contract on your brother's soul. We have it in trust. No doubt he is looking forward to the outcome of this game.”

Sam's hold on his cards tightened infinitesimally. He looked at the demon guardedly, saw him smile; he'd noticed.

But Dean was behind him. “No doubt,” he said. He looked at his cards and thought about doing a discard. “If I'd known that, I could have dealt with him directly. I already gave him something in trade for getting me here. Something he seemed to think quite valuable.”

He made the discard and rapidly dealt himself another.

“Something John Uskglass thought valuable!” the demon said with elaborate shock. “Do tell.”

“A pistol, built by Samuel Colt to kill demons permanently,” Sam said. He winked at the demon. “No offence. You might know it. My brother there used it to kill Azazel. I think he was pretty high up here?”

The demon sniffed. “Once, perhaps. Did John Uskglass confide why he wanted such a trinket? Iron is not something with which he has success.”

“Yeah,” Sam said thoughtfully. “That's why he wanted it. He said it was in trust.” He deliberately used the same flippant inflection the demon had, saying the same thing about Dean's soul, and gave him the biggest, sunniest smile he could manage. “For the future.”

Beezlebub went very, very slightly paler.

“I see,” he said faintly. He cleared his throat. “I'll call.”

Sam laid his cards down. After a beat, so did Beezlebub.

They both stood up at the same moment. A moment later, Dean was at his side, the other demon at Beezlebub's.

“You can put us down in Kansas,” Sam said cheerfully. “Near a highway but not too near people. Thanks. It's been real.”

The demon glared at him. He made a small, violent gesture; the cards disappeared.

“Get in your vehicle and it will be done,” he gritted out, the regular good looks of his features twisted and snarling.

“Thanks again,” Sam said. He took Dean by the wrist, gripping it hard, feeling the pulse flutter and beat, steady, under his fingers.

They walked out of the diner.

“Sam-”

“In a minute,” Sam said urgently. He herded Dean into the car, both of them scrambling along the seat from the passenger door. He'd barely shut the door when the car translocated, a feeling like the stomach drop at the top of a rollercoaster.

Sam got out immediately, turning in a full circle to make sure. It looked like Kansas. They were on the side of a road; a sign put them near an exit onto K-66. The air smelled fresh. The sky was clear and blue, a couple of clouds drifting over it. It looked right; it felt right.

It had worked. They were safe and together.

“Sammy,” and Dean was coming around the car to meet him, whole and well and with him and Sam opened his arms and they crashed together, clutching and crying and laughing like crazy.

* * *

“You brought my car into hell,” Dean said later, accusing and fond and lazy. He'd eaten all the food in the car. Sam had managed to swipe one candy bar. There was a huge grin on his face, joy bubbling over, his eyes shining with it.

“Sorry,” Sam said, helpless not to beam back, his cheeks hurting with it, the most complete pure happiness he'd ever felt.

“So what happened back there?” Dean said tentatively. “Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. But a two-pair doesn't win over a straight, Sam.”

“No,” Sam said. “That's not the hand he saw. It was magic.” Dean looked reluctant to press him and Sam hated that shadow coming over his face. “This king I know showed me,” he said. “I'll tell you all about it later. We're going for real food.” He pulled Dean up off the ground, and smiled into his face again, and that was all it took to make Dean beam back into his.

“Okay,” he said. He moved to the drivers' side door and they kept grinning like fools at each other over the roof until Dean stopped patting the car and got in.

They settled in. Sam had never thought he'd be thrilled to be back in the passenger seat but it was so good, so right to have his brother back at his side.

“Okay,” Dean said, hands moving sweetly over the wheel, the dash, reaching over to grab Sam's shoulder and tousle his hair. His voice sounded suspiciously cracked. “You gonna say it or shall I?”

“You can say it,” Sam said generously.

Dean threw his arm over the back of Sam's seat and a soft contented smile in his direction. “Come on, little brother. We got work to do.”

* * * END * * *


End file.
